Pretty bad ass!

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May 14, 2026.

Almost like any other day to my friend Rhoda.

Weekdays meant water

It was Thursday, and weekdays she went to water aerobics at the gym. Her son Robert drove her the two miles from her house to the gym; he lifted her walker from the car trunk and assisted his mother from the front seat.

Rhoda grabbed the handles and pushed her walker and paraphernalia into the expansive lobby, where the front desk was adorned with massive balloons and banners highlighting the specialness of the day.

May 14, 2026, Rhoda turned 100!

We all knew her fleet of water aerobics buddies (plus the whole San Diego Bay Club Community) would make a “splash” about her day—in and out of the water.

“Water aerobics on her 100^th birthday…Pretty bad ass!” was my son’s response when I sent him a photo of Rhoda entering the gym that day.

The weeks leading up to her birthday had been filled with celebratory lunches, dinners and parties. Relatives and friends had flown cross country or driven into San Diego from LA to honor Rhoda. There were telephone calls from across the globe.

When any of us phoned or texted Rhoda to invite her to a commemorative luncheon or dinner, she’d put us on hold and check her telephone calendar to let us know the dwindling dates that remained open for our get-together.

Her house looked like a flower shop!

Boxes of candy. Flower arrangements. Plants. Scarves. Tchotchkes. Birthday cards, gift cards and more celebrated the woman who had thrived for an entire century.

Counters and side tables, dining and kitchen tables all overflowed with massive floral arrangements and beautiful plants. Throughout the month of May her house looked like a flower shop!

Who was this woman who had achieved such a landmark?

May 14, 1926. Rhoda was born in New York City.

The early 1900’s, a time when few women went to college, Rhoda Forrest completed both bachelor’s and master’s degrees.

She taught sixth grade and music in the public schools of New York City and moved to upstate New York after she married George Forrest, a young orthodontist.

Upstate New York in the Fifties

Life in Glens Falls was busy, and comfortable. There she raised three children.

George, a traditionalist, did not want his wife working, but Rhoda was a people person and always sought activity outside the house.

Gifted with a beautiful voice, she performed in regional musical theater, was a member of the Hudson Valley Operetta and Oratorio Clubs and served as Cantorial Soloist at her local synagogue. Her decades in Glens Falls were full, active, and happy.

Goodbye snow, Hello sunshine

In 1992, Rhoda and George moved to San Diego, where her eldest child Joan, a dentist, had settled. That same year, my family of four (and four dogs) also relocated from the east coast to San Diego.

For the next fifteen years, we lived merely four miles from each other, traveled in similar and overlapping paths—belonged to the same synagogue, attended the same theater and movies, joined the same gym—yet our paths never crossed until 2007 after I survived a traumatic car accident.

Both Rhoda and I were widows, and I needed someone to drive me to the hospital for TBI therapy; a neighbor referred me to the woman who had cared for George in his decline. These randomly linked circumstances introduced Rhoda and me.

Our friendship grew steadily. We immediately became theater and movie companions. We altered our independent theater subscriptions to the La Jolla Playhouse and The Old Globe, so we attended the same shows and sat together. We joined the same book club, always sat together, yet did not always agree about the merits of each book.

We had likely passed in the lobby of our gym in years past, but now that we knew each other, we would stop and chat.

The best friendship, a two-way street

Rhoda introduced me to monthly luncheons at ORT, she invited me to share in her extended family Seders and break fasts, I shared my extra seats to Civic Theater musicals and Jewish Film Festival movies.

When I had a knee replaced, Rhoda stopped by to fill my fridge with a supply of Trader Joe’s basics. When Rhoda fell and was recovering in a La Jolla rehab facility, I made sure to visit her almost daily with treats and a positive attitude. I still cook extra quantities of soups and stews to bring healthy dinners to her house.

Thank you, Rhoda, for teaching me how to schmooze and for opening me to greater patience.

If the stars align and you meet Rhoda…

If you, Dear Reader, have the good fortune to meet Rhoda, undoubtedly, she will tell you proudly she has passed the 100-year marker within moments of your encounter.

You will be astonished because Rhoda does not look her age.

Be sure to express your disbelief because one of her greatest pleasures is to fish out her driver’s license to offer proof of age! (She has not driven for several years, but she renews her CA license every five years, just to have valid ‘proof of age’ to whip out to stun her new meets!)

Even Rhoda has physical challenges

A few weeks ago, Rhoda’s appendix burst.

Mundane occurrences, like a burst appendix, do not seem to be appropriate for our super-hero, Rhoda. Nonetheless, her hospital and rehab have taken a toll.

We friends and family are a steady stream of visitors to her room because, while she has lived 100+ years, Rhoda steadfastly has refused to learn to enjoy being alone.

In a couple of weeks, when she returns home, two or three of us will acquiesce to her oft-repeated offers to teach us mahjong—and we are actually looking forward to the day!

Thank you, Rhoda, for welcoming me into your fold.

Please join me in extending “Congratulations” to Rhoda Forrest, for a life well-lived.

What do you think?

Do you know a 100-year-old person?

The other day I saw a post on Facebook claiming, “Scientists believe that the first person to live to be 150 years old has already been born.” Who knows if it was a fake entry? I was unable to ascertain…but if it’s true, we think it might be Rhoda!

We live our lives caught up in our day-to-day. As we age, do we think back actively, reflecting on the subtle and massive changes we have experienced over the decades? I launched on Substack to do just that, both for “Ladies above the speed limit” who could relate to my experiences AND to record events to leave a story for my children and grandchildren. The beauty of Substack is the variety of beautiful reflections I have discovered, the vibrant community of memoirists here to enrich our lives. We are not alone.

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Thursday evening

My Inbox alerted me, the inflatable ball I’d ordered for my physical therapy exercise had been delivered.

I was eager to begin the exercise. At Tuesday’s session my physical therapist had shown me the size I needed, and Amazon was happy to offer too many options. I was pleased when I felt comfortable making my selection after reviewing all the available offerings.

Immediately I got up from the couch, to retrieve my purchase.

I opened the front door and looked down, expecting to see a ball.

What? No ball?

Instead, off to the side, a flat white rectangular bag was lying there.

I knew I had ordered an inflatable—nearly all the offerings were inflatable—yet, expecting my ‘ball,’ I pictured a round, full ball.

As I bent over to pick up the package I was thinking, “Hmm, I have to blow this up.”

Seconds later, I was standing up after grabbing hold of the ball bag, already telling myself, “I can’t do this.” I put the bag on the counter, mildly stressing, “This is too hard, I’ll do it later.”

I put it off till the next morning.

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Friday morning

I opened the flat wrap and extracted the rubbery product, silently muttering, “I can’t do this. I hope there are instructions,” even though in researching what ball to buy I knew (and had read) “How it works” instructions in multiple Amazon product descriptions. Essentially, all the inflatables described the same procedure.

Still, I assumed, I’ll mess this up.

I also assumed one or more of the necessary parts would be missing: Maybe the instruction sheet (I already knew the simple procedure). The straw? (“Would any of the straws I have in the house fit?”). “What if the plug was missing?” (I imagined myself searching through a junk drawer for a leftover plug that would miraculously fit, even going so far as to think, “I’ll find a plug, but it won’t fit.”)

I carried the package to my couch and sat.

As I pulled apart the sides of the ball, a cellophane-encased packet fluttered into my lap. Inside were the two straws, two plugs and the instruction sheet that likely accompany every flat ball.

I tore open the cellophane and retrieved one straw. I inserted the straw. I blew into the plastic tube and watched the ball inflate. I grabbed a plug when the orb was firm enough and pushed it into the ball to keep it secure, while thinking, “I wonder if this will hold the air,” simultaneously acknowledging even if it grows flabby it’ll function well enough for my purposes.

Staring at the finished product…

“Wow! I did this!” I marveled.

I felt a self-satisfaction approaching excitement.

An idiot-proof task.

One tiny moment.

The unnecessary mental tumult I’d created was ridiculous.

Thinking back, had I not seen the early instructions, had there been no instruction sheet in the package: even then, armed only with the straw, the flat ball and the plug at my disposal, I know I would have managed just fine.

Why do I do this?

I am not a psychologist (I never took a single psych class in college, which was more than a half century ago).

I am not stupid. I am not incompetent.

My husband died over twenty years ago. I have lived alone since then, managing my household, undergoing and recovering from surgeries, and experiencing serious life events capably.

I raised two remarkable sons.

I worked steadily for decades, earned a full income, was a successful business professional, and an active contributor to my community.

And yet,

Just a few days ago, well into age 79, I erected insane mental calisthenics over inflating an inanimate ball.

‘Self-Doubt’ is one of the ‘little people” that’s bounced around inside me for years, long before I cleared time to examine all the parts and pieces that make me tick.

I was surprised to realize my version of Self-Doubt resides alongside my ‘Self-Confidence.’ By now, I’m sure they’re great buddies. I wonder if they ever laugh at the way they play with my mind. Do they plan these ‘crises’ and then sit back, enjoying buttered popcorn together as they watch me work through them?

Epilogue: Many days later

I’m kind of upbeat.

It wasn’t until I was driving last week that I realized, out of nowhere, I had beaten myself up in similar fashion four times in only three days!

· Once over the ball

· Once over a digital exercise I needed to accomplish for Substack

· Once regarding uploading digital tickets to sell, and finally

· Finding my way to an unknown destination.

Each of these activities had unfolded and resolved without incident, but the emotional hoops I jumped through in advance for each insignificant event might explain why I am completely gray.

P.S.: I’ve got plenty to think about as I do today’s physical therapy with my ball.

You, dear reader:

· Do you ever feel early thoughts of self-doubt before a start?

· Tell me about a time when you thought “I can’t” and then proved yourself wrong? Has it ever stopped you from even trying to start?

· Have you figured out a way to overcome self-doubt or eradicate it altogether?

Please step forward and share your thoughts.

Thanks a gazillion for reading these jottings. And thanks a “gajillion” more for adding to the conversation, “Why do I tell myself “I can’t do this” before I even begin?”

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By Anita Charney

None of it ever changed

We had always heard the family legend told the same way, from the time I was a little girl—over 70 years ago.

Even given her penchant for embellishment and fact-editing, the narrative was the same each time.

None of it ever changed.

Dad’s eyes would twinkle as he remembered. I see him smiling, his pipe clenched in his teeth, as he nodded and Mom recounted the event, yet again.

My boys heard it from Mom, too—their beloved Nanny Etta—from the days they were old enough to comprehend, decades after Dad had died.

But the tale of how they met did not exist in a vacuum. It was part of a much larger landscape, one that played out similarly thousands of times in other American World War 2 households.

***

The world around them was in turmoil

America’s military had never experienced anything like it:

Recruiting stations across the country were forced to remain open 24/7 to process the millions of men lined up outside waiting to enlist.

When Japan stunned Pearl Harbor December 7, 1941, the United States’ combined forces numbered around 2 million active duty. By war’s end that number swelled to over 12 million.

Isidor and Nathan Charney were Brooklyn Jews, the oldest and youngest of four siblings. Their parents were Rebecca and Joseph Charney, immigrants who had fled Russian tyranny and met here.

Isidor (Izzy) was 33; his kid brother, Nathan (Nat) 27, when Japan struck. Izzy headed to Fort Hamilton to enlist in the Army, Nat to Brooklyn Navy Yard to become a sailor.

Saturday night, July 31, 1943.

The Charney brothers were among the partiers, celebrating at a local Brooklyn house party, four days after Izzy’s enlistment.

They were in the basement. The party house was filled with uniformed men and civilians, their wives and girlfriends, plus lots of single women, as well. A sense of nervous excitement bounced from one animated group to another.

They were preparing to leave the party

As Izzy and Nat approached the basement stairway leading up to the main floor—Izzy ahead of Nat to proceed single-file up the stairs—Izzy grabbed hold of the banister to secure his balance and turned his head over his shoulder to say something to his brother.

At the precise moment they began their ascent a woman began her descent from the top.

Izzy was engrossed in his banter, unaware of the figure ahead of him blocking their passage. He continued climbing slowly, chattering to his brother.

Nat, facing forward, nudged Izzy, moving his head upward to indicate to his brother he needed to swivel his head around to the front.

Izzy followed his brother’s guidance and turned, eyes forward. He gazed up at the slender woman in front of him a few steps ahead.

With his right hand still on the banister, he spread his free hand across to the wall. Fully blocking the passageway, he grinned and ogled the woman standing there, her impatience palpable.

“Nat,” he called back to his brother.

“Nat. See that girl in the red dress? That’s the girl I’m going to marry!”

Red Dress snapped angrily, “You’re drunk!”

The men stood frozen in place.

Red Dress’s voice rose, “Respect the uniform you’re wearing and let a lady pass!”

Nat grabbed his brother’s shoulder and awkwardly pulled him back down the stairs, expressing “sorry” to the female, who walked past them without a glance.

That woman, Etta, had arrived at the gathering with her nephew, Aaron, a few years her junior. At this point she was eager to tell him she had had enough of the party. She peeled through the crowd till she met up with Aaron.

Etta did not mention the stairway encounter but simply told Aaron she wanted to leave. He nodded and began to approach the hosts to say his goodbyes.

“There’s one special person I’d like you to meet, if I can spot him. I think you’d like each other,” Aaron said.

“There he is!” he exclaimed, pointing.

When Etta followed his outstretched arm, she saw he was directing her gaze to Soldier Izzy.

“You’re as drunk as he is!” she blurted and, holding her beaded red purse stiffly by her side, walked indignantly toward the exit.

***

Sunday, August 1, the next day

Much of the same crowd was arranged on a massive assembly of blankets at Coney Island Beach. It was customary for the group to gather informally on weekends, the blanket spreading outward as more people joined their congregation.

When Etta arrived, she began to set her things on one of the edges of the community blanket.

“I think I owe you an apology,” softly behind her.

She turned to face Stairway Soldier in broad daylight. He looked different in his bathing suit and tee-shirt.

“No apologies necessary,” and she continued unpacking.

As the afternoon progressed several conversations were going among the group members, food passed around the potluck luncheon they had each brought and contributed to the weekend beach party.

She did not want to but found herself noticing the soldier’s speech as he occasionally commented. She was drawn to his soft voice, elegant command of English, and commendable vocabulary. He did not have ‘that’ heavy New York accent; in fact, he had no accent at all.

Inching closer, she listened on the periphery for a long while without joining in any of the conversations, until one chat casually turned to the topic of movies.

Her interest piqued

They were discussing movies, and specifically the 1942 Joan Crawford/Melvin Douglass movie, They All Kissed the Bride.

Columbia Pictures, where Etta had worked in the Payroll Department since graduating high school, had produced the movie. Columbia was family to her; their movie successes were her successes.

Suddenly, she was an eager participant.

“Joan Crawford donated her salary to the Red Cross,” Etta added.

She knew the salaries—of all the employees, and all the stars. It was not unusual for her to draw the check and hand it to the movie star herself in the early days.

“Have you seen the movie?” Izzy asked her directly.

“Not yet,” she white lied. She had seen it in the screening room pre-release.

“Would you like to see it? I’d love to take you.”

“Yes, I would enjoy that.”

He responded, “By the way, I want you to know, I wasn’t drunk last night.”

***

Speaking of movies…

That Tuesday, two days later, Etta Levoff and Isidor Charney saw Joan Crawford together.

The movie details never figured into any snippets my parents told, but the whirlwind love story they launched officially that day could provide an excellent foundation for a rom-com movie and certainly delighted us throughout the years.

Two weeks after their movie date, Isidor was shipped to Joplin, Missouri for training school. There he would attend crash courses in German and Russian language and Signal Interception.

Five days after he left town, Etta boarded a plane to Joplin.

On August 23, 1943, 24 days after they crossed paths on a narrow Brooklyn stairway, a local Missouri Justice of the Peace married them.

Six weeks later, the new husband departed for the Middle East, where he would translate intercepted propaganda and enemy plans for the next two years.

Etta returned to her home in Brooklyn and her payroll job at Columbia’s 711 Fifth Avenue, to await his return on January 7, 1946.

I was born November 25, eleven months later.

Never a raised voice between them

In the many years that followed, not once did they raise their voices in argument, never were they disrespectful to each other, a fact that always amazed me.

Regrettably, the red dress Mom wore that July night in Brooklyn is long gone. I never saw it in real life or in photos, though Dad often referred to it with a ‘look’ that seemed to transport him back. That expression was unique to his remembrances of their first encounter.

I do have the beaded red and black purse she carried that historic evening, every bead perfectly in place, alas, too small to fit my current cell phone.

***

Afterword

I have always loved the magic of how my parents met. I admired their unwavering mutual respect. For my brother and me, it meant we grew up in a household free of temper flare-ups and drama.

Their leap-of-faith marriage dazzles me even today. I remember their carefully measured, conservative daily lives, and it is hard to pair them with their Joplin union.

I wish I could ask:

Dad, how did you know?

One look was all it took and he tumbled into love? Mom was attractive, but not a movie-star stunner. She was well-groomed and slender, but I doubt anyone would label her a knockout. Dad never cared about or noticed fancy, fashionable clothing. How did the red dress catch his eye? Was it love-at-first-sight when he saw her?

Was it the war?

The chaos of the times was terrifying. Rations. Lights out orders. The horrific rounding up of Japanese Americans. Rumors about the European genocide. Nazi infiltrations stateside. Did the reality of the 1940’s heighten the pressure to grab hold of happiness and connection?

Mom’s childhood was broken

Mom’s mom died when Mom was a toddler. She was the baby of the family, with three older siblings many years her senior. Her own father worked for the post office and needed to remain employed. So, Mom was shuttled to live with either of her older sisters, who were already married with children. Mom heard frequent rumblings, when no one thought she was within earshot—she was a financial, unwanted burden. Did she jump into marriage as an escape from that damaged childhood?

She worked for Columbia Pictures

She was also a voracious reader. Movies and books transported her from the sadness of her reality to a happier world. When she flew to Joplin, Missouri was she creating her own movie setting where she was the actress, writer and producer, where she could create the life she wanted?

What about you?

· How did your parents meet?

· Was theirs a World War 2 or Vietnam story?

· Did they meet in school?

· How did their courtship unfold?

· Did your parents ever take you to see where “they” began?

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Please share your thoughts here freely. I am eager to hear from you, and I encourage you to tell us.

Thank you for reading my personal history. My Mom and Dad would be tickled to know you know he wasn’t drunk that night, too!

By Anita Charney

That week in October 2006 was a parade of firsts.

I had my first car accident (a doozey).

I fell asleep at the wheel, then was knocked unconscious as my car crashed.

It was the first time I’d ever been life-flighted to a hospital.

And there I was, early afternoon, 6 days into my longest-ever hospital stay, propped up in bed, alone with my brain injury.

The squishy pillows behind me were not firm enough to bolster me, and I strained my abs to remain upright.

I was paralyzed along one side of my body, unable to maneuver the pillows properly to maximize the boost.

I had not yet tried to leave the bed, so I was unaware that my paralyzed left leg meant I could not walk.

Thoughts pinged into my head in random chaotic order as they occurred to me, unconnected to each other.

Injured or whole, our amazing brain works in crazy ways

At that moment I was more annoyed at the difficulty of the minor pillow task than I was aware of the huge issue that caused the paralysis, or the physical and emotional trials that lay ahead.

Instead, I’d been obsessing over my missing diamond bracelet and watch that had “disappeared” from my wrists and reportedly were nowhere in the wreckage, inside or outside the car.

Pissed off, uncomfortable, in a strange place. I was convinced I would find the jewelry if I could just get up and visit the accident site myself.

That was not about to happen.

A light tap at the door interrupted my stream of consciousness.

I began to smile, expecting to see my sons, Justin and Ari.

With them by my side, I felt grounded and safe. The mysteries of the accident disappeared from my mind. Alone, I would slip back into fear and fog.

Instead, when the door to my room opened, a young, unremarkable-looking male filled the doorway.

He was wearing a short white coat, so I assumed he was a medical someone.

He was of average height, about 5’10”, slender, dark hair.

He told me his name. I have no recollection.

He had come to sew up the 3 lacerated fingers on my left hand.

“Good!” I was relieved.

I’m a lefty. The moment I’d realized my left hand could not form letters, could not hold a pencil I had panicked. In my ignorance, a patched up left hand meant “full repair,” all systems go.

If I could not hold a pen, how would I make my living?

Who would I be?

To any onlooker, that was ridiculous.

My head was shaved.

My entire skull was swathed in tight bandages; seeped, dried blood dotted the gauze,

Beneath the wrapping was a titanium plate inserted inside my head. The wound was still open; it would remain unstitched for several days—my sons had seen it, though I never did.

All along my left arm were cuts and scrapes that even today, nearly 20 years later, deliver painful reminders when the weather gets wonky.

“Dr. Tentative,” I named him, the young attending physician, wheeled in a stainless-steel cart. Atop were small plastic vials, bottles, fresh gauze and various small stainless instruments.

He sat down on a rolling stool and moved it to my bedside.

I sensed something was amiss, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.

His eyes were cast downward; he wouldn’t look at me when he spoke. [Not unlike the metaphor of a jury returning to the courtroom after reaching a guilty verdict, I see now.]

He did not smile. His whole being oozed, “I do not want to be here.”

That made two of us!

I looked away. I would not watch the procedure.

He unwrapped and removed the bandages covering my bruised fingers. All digits, save the pinky, felt raw as the air touched them.

I continued to force my gaze away.

Out of the corner of my vision field, I sensed the needle as it approached my finger.

I did not realize the absence of numbing agents until the first pierce.

I’d love to report that the needle puncture was painless.

Or that I bucked up, clenched my jaw, and handled it like a valiant warrior.

That would be a lie.

I howled…

Loud at the first stab, as he continued, I grew enamored with the noise I was making and discovered that yelling was a way to distract me from the actual infliction of pain.

My holler admirably boomed.

Sweat beads collected on his clean-shaved upper lip.

His perspiration made me feel a tinge of guilt. I knew I was exaggerating my screams, enjoying the show, but I didn’t mean to upset my torturer.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Silently, I vowed to exercise more control.

We might have made it through the seaming, had he not continued talking,

“This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”

Whoa!

I yanked my imprisoned arm from his grip.

This experiment was over!

Moments later, his supervisor entered the room to check on the progress. She surveyed the scene.

Wordlessly, calmly,

She scrubbed, pulled on gloves, and completed the sewing. She was a confident seamstress. The remainder of the repair was relatively painless.

If life is a journey of firsts…

Nearly every occurrence that October week was a first for me and my family.

My first car accident was a total. A death-defying rollover that smashed my brain and my car. [Shoutout of thanks again to Lorrelle and Mike Sanford, my forever-heroes, who saw me crash on the highway and stopped to make sure police arrived quickly.]

Justin dropped what he was doing and rushed to the airport to pick up Ari.

Ari was mid-fall semester of his senior year at Berkeley. He raced from college campus to catch a plane to meet Justin at LAX, not knowing whether they were orphans. These memories live with them.

I’ve lived with the aftermath of the brain injury since that day. I’ve been told often enough that I will feel the effects as long as I breathe.

In fact, every time I touch the fingers Dr. Tentative sewed, I feel the raw ping. Little black, visible gravel flecks remain below the surface.

Several years ago, while I was showering, one piece of the gravel, scraped from the side of a California highway halfway up the coast, buried in my pointer finger from the accident, made its way to the surface and pushed itself through the skin near my cuticle! It was a scary, surreal moment when the foreign object emerged, surrounded by blood. I couldn’t then nor do I now understand why doctors left gravel inside me.

We joke about our memory as we age.

Most of us have thought or said:

• “Where did I leave my glasses?”

• “Has anyone seen my keys?”

• “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast.”

But we all may remember:

The first time we drove a car…our first job…the first bicycle ride without training wheels.

And not just our “big” events.

I remember my mom’s ecstasy when she bit into the first mango she’d ever tasted. We’d recently moved to California, and I was in the local supermarket where a clerk was cutting and offering samples. The instant the new fruit reached my taste buds I knew my mother would love it, too. I still see her delight when I peeled that messy fruit and served her first mango.

Nor will I ever forget the lightning speed with which baby Justin, an indifferent eater, whipped his head to attention that first moment I slipped mashed banana into his formula bottle.

And so, too—of all the activity I endured in that California medical institution—the single event I recall is that strange interlude with a young physician whose mentor sent him to my room for on-the-job learning.

Hmm…What about Dr. Tentative…

• Is he still practicing medicine?

• Did he learn to sew fingers more proficiently, with or without numbing agent?

• Does he remember his first patient face-to-face?

• Has he ever recounted to a new physician recruit how he failed his first Bedside Manner Test?

Epilogue:

A few days later, Justin and Ari persisted with hospital administrators to have me transferred to a facility closer to my San Diego home. My sons were not permitted to drive me themselves; the mid-state hospital insisted I be transported by ambulance. The boys had selected Scripps Encinitas, because it was closer to home and we had had experience there earlier with my mom. Fortuitously, and unbeknownst to us at the time, Scripps Encinitas was equipped with an exceptional advanced brain injury unit. There, my medical and healing rehab continued non-stop for the next nine months.

How about you?

• What firsts stand out from your past?

• What major event(s) are seared in your memory?

• Can you recount a “minor” moment that still brings a smile…or a tear?

Thank you for reading about a mini moment in a huge event from my past. Even now, I smile that out of nowhere this memory popped up.

Did any point strike you…remind you of a time from your own past?

I would love to hear from you, create a dialog. I know other readers will, too. Thanks, again!

“We met in church”

By Anita Charney

I loved that answer, 100% truthful

It was my stock reply when anyone asked where and how we’d met. sometimes delivered with a straight face, other times with a broad smile.

Even today, over 50 years later, I still feel an inside-smile at the playful irony. It was likely the last place two Jews might predict they’d meet.

Francis Xavier Church was a massive structure, a few hundred feet from my apartment building, midway between 5^th and 6^th Avenues in downtown Manhattan.

Still the Age of Innocence

Before cell phones, before the internet, before social media…

Mid-October 1974, on an ordinary Tuesday, a few minutes past 7

I returned from midtown, 53^rd Street where I worked as an editor in publishing—back when publishing was still the thing that Baby Boomers recognized as mass-produced books and magazines, when publishing was a common landing spot for college graduates who’d majored in English.

My subway stop was conveniently close

I climbed the steps from the 6^th Avenue and 16^th Street station, walked to my building entrance, and exchanged greetings with Mario, the doorman.

The elevator to the South Tower, where I lived, was at the rear. Up to the 12^th floor.

Slipping the key into the keyhole, I opened the door and dropped my briefcase onto the floor by the entrance. I was still removing my jacket when my phone rang.

With a tinge of annoyance at the interruption during my first moment of relaxation, I lifted the receiver.

It was Susan, my friend who lived in the unit immediately beneath mine, on the 11^th floor. The briefcase clunk had alerted her I was home.

“Hi,” she opened and then quickly commanded, “Change into casual. We’re going out.”

“Not tonight,” I countered wearily. “I’m tired. Long day.”

“Yes, tonight,” she insisted. “There’s an important block meeting at the church. You’re going. We’re going.”

Again, “Not tonight.”

“We’re going,” with more emphasis. “It’s about the block rapes.”

“Hmm,” I murmured.

1974 Manhattan life, easily a noir movie setting

Early Seventies New York had seen a steep increase in personal violent crimes. That alone was enough to intimidate me. I grew up on Long Island and had not spent much time in New York. Although I had already lived there for several years, I remained timid.

Add rampant graffiti, rundown buildings, and a feeling of doom as the city hovered on the brink of financial disaster.

While Chelsea Manhattan was not at the heart of violent activity, nerves throughout the city were on high edge.

Two rapes had sounded alarms frighteningly close to us—one down the street further west, and one in our 24-hour-doormanned building. There was a reason no one felt safe. No one was safe.

Sue sensed me softening as I absorbed her message

“Yeah,” she continued, “They called an emergency Block Association Meeting. There’s a speaker tonight. A lawyer. He’ll be going over some steps to increase personal safety.”

I groaned. I definitely wanted to curl up and unwind.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “What time?”

“8-o’clock. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh… Dress nice.”

“What? Why?” I whined.

Now I was annoyed

“The speaker is Jewish. Your mother would want you to dress nice.”

My annoyance grew.

“Not interested! Definitely not interested.”

Susan knew I’d ended an unhealthy three-year relationship months before and had buried myself more deeply into my marketing and editing work. She had appointed herself as my ‘social coach’ and was eager to guide me back into the dating world.

Plus, from our discussions on the matter, she knew I had an aversion to dating Jewish men (much to my mother’s chagrin). Too many reminded me of the suburban Long Islanders I’d met growing up and at college.

“Maybe he’s for you,” I quipped back at her.

Susan, a petite blond, Italian and Catholic, had a strange on-again, off-again relationship with an older Jewish guy she’d known forever.

“Quiet! Dress nice. Meet you at 8.”

The Meeting

About thirty-to-forty locals were collected in a large basement room when we arrived at the church.

There was a sign-in sheet, for names, phone numbers, and addresses.

Susan and I each recognized several attendees. I remember saying I felt uneasy that I didn’t recognize everyone, wondering, “What if there’s a rapist here, spying on the safety steps we’re taking?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sue responded.

The Speaker

The speaker was cute, I begrudgingly noted to myself. Maybe even handsome, in a way. He looked young, I mean very young.

I joked to Susan about how young he seemed. She laughed at me and chalked it up to my subconscious comparison to my ex-boyfriend, 20+ years older than me.

“He looks married,” I whispered.

“You’re ridiculous,” she repeated. “What does ‘looks married’ look like?”

“I don’t know. It’s a thing he gives off.”

He had a prepared list of safety tips. Nothing “aha!” but all practical. After his presentation, a bunch of us attendees remained to help craft a bulletin to be distributed to all residents, summarizing the speaker’s tips and warning females to walk in pairs, to exercise caution.

We were clustered around a large table, some sitting but most of us standing. I was positioned a bit behind the Speaker at an angle.

A coffee urn with cookies sat off to one side of the room.

“Get me a coffee, light, just milk,” the Speaker suddenly turned his head and said to me over his shoulder.

I was stunned and involuntarily scrunched my face in disbelief at the rudeness.

“Get it yourself!” I replied without raising my voice.

“I’m sorry. (Slight pause) Please, a light coffee, no sugar,” he amended, with an apologetic smile.

He was leading the attendee interaction, answering additional questions. So, having made the point, I acquiesced.

The Follow-up

As a follow-up to the meeting, we planned to distribute the advisory Bulletin to every apartment on our block. No one would walk alone. We’d go in groups of two.

My memory of the block, our Sixteenth Street residents were divided among brownstones and apartments—those on the north side of the street lived in brownstones; the south side included our apartment building, the church, and an assortment of commercial structures with lofts.

Chelsea Lane, our building, consisted of two connected, identical towers, a North Building and a South Building—that stretched fully through, from 15^th to 16^th street, with nearly 500 units among the twelve floors.

Susan and I were pleased at the convenience when the Speaker assigned us the Second Floor of the South building, where we lived.

Distribution Night

We exited the elevator and turned left, carrying our supply of Bulletins and a small pad. We walked to the end of the hall to begin our assignment, 10 apartments on each side of the elevator.

One by one, we knocked on each door. We kept a list of ‘no responses,’ with plans to return the next day to try to contact every unit to emphasize the importance with in-person message delivery.

Finally, we reached the twentieth door, our last stop at the opposite end of the floor. No one answered, so we added that apartment to the list of ‘re-visits’ and headed back toward the elevator to return to our upper floor dwellings.

Voila!

As the elevator doors opened, amusing surprise!

Our very-young-looking Block Association Speaker emerged carrying a briefcase, obviously just returning from work, equally surprised. He invited us back to his apartment, the last one we’d just visited at the furthest end of the strip.

We weren’t there long. He offered us a snack and produced refrigerated cans of soda and a can of Hawaiian macadamia nuts. I remember commenting I’d seen, but never tasted, macadamia nuts because they were so expensive.

That produced a smile. As he opened the fresh can of nuts he told a story about his father, who loved macadamia nuts and who had introduced him to them after discovering them on a trip to Hawaii.

“When my father offered me a taste, he said, ‘Here, try a nut.’ A single nut. And that’s all he offered!”

During the conversation, we learned that Speaker [David] had recently moved to the South Building. Previously, he lived in the North Tower but decided on a change of scenery when his marriage dissolved.

So, he was married after all.

I turned a smug ‘so-there!’ face toward Susan.

“Write your phone numbers down for me, please,” David requested as we were preparing to leave.

On the ride up to our places Susan and I teased each other, “See. He wanted your phone number,” I told her.

“No, yours,” she laughed.

Only one of us was right.

Two days later, my phone rang.

Epilogue

When we think of modes of transportation to meet-ups when dating, we usually think

· By foot

· By train

· By bus

· By car

David and I, however, began traveling up and down that elevator to get together.

Eighteen months later, we eliminated the elevator. I sublet my apartment and moved downstairs.

Two years after that we left Manhattan for a small town in North New Jersey, where we bought and renovated a house.

For work, I began and continued my grueling 4-hour+ commute to Manhattan. David’s commuter patience lasted under a month—he’d passed the Jersey bar and established his practice in local rural Jersey, where we had purchased an office building on Main Street, an old, converted house.

In 1992, a sheet of ice covering our driveway, we piled our two young sons and four dogs into our SUV and waved goodbye to our Jersey life. Sixty hours later we arrived in San Diego.

In all, after that October evening when “I met him at church,” we lived under the same roof for almost thirty years—except for a three-month interval in 1994 when we briefly separated.

Together till the day he died in August 2002.

“We met in church”

By Anita Charney

I loved that answer, 100% truthful

It was my stock reply when anyone asked where and how we’d met. sometimes delivered with a straight face, other times with a broad smile.

Even today, over 50 years later, I still feel an inside-smile at the playful irony. It was likely the last place two Jews might predict they’d meet.

Francis Xavier Church was a massive structure, a few hundred feet from my apartment building, midway between 5^th and 6^th Avenues in downtown Manhattan.

Still the Age of Innocence

Before cell phones, before the internet, before social media…

Mid-October 1974, on an ordinary Tuesday, a few minutes past 7

I returned from midtown, 53^rd Street where I worked as an editor in publishing—back when publishing was still the thing that Baby Boomers recognized as mass-produced books and magazines, when publishing was a common landing spot for college graduates who’d majored in English.

My subway stop was conveniently close

I climbed the steps from the 6^th Avenue and 16^th Street station, walked to my building entrance, and exchanged greetings with Mario, the doorman.

The elevator to the South Tower, where I lived, was at the rear. Up to the 12^th floor.

Slipping the key into the keyhole, I opened the door and dropped my briefcase onto the floor by the entrance. I was still removing my jacket when my phone rang.

With a tinge of annoyance at the interruption during my first moment of relaxation, I lifted the receiver.

It was Susan, my friend who lived in the unit immediately beneath mine, on the 11^th floor. The briefcase clunk had alerted her I was home.

“Hi,” she opened and then quickly commanded, “Change into casual. We’re going out.”

“Not tonight,” I countered wearily. “I’m tired. Long day.”

“Yes, tonight,” she insisted. “There’s an important block meeting at the church. You’re going. We’re going.”

Again, “Not tonight.”

“We’re going,” with more emphasis. “It’s about the block rapes.”

“Hmm,” I murmured.

1974 Manhattan life, easily a noir movie setting

Early Seventies New York had seen a steep increase in personal violent crimes. That alone was enough to intimidate me. I grew up on Long Island and had not spent much time in New York. Although I had already lived there for several years, I remained timid.

Add rampant graffiti, rundown buildings, and a feeling of doom as the city hovered on the brink of financial disaster.

While Chelsea Manhattan was not at the heart of violent activity, nerves throughout the city were on high edge.

Two rapes had sounded alarms frighteningly close to us—one down the street further west, and one in our 24-hour-doormanned building. There was a reason no one felt safe. No one was safe.

Sue sensed me softening as I absorbed her message

“Yeah,” she continued, “They called an emergency Block Association Meeting. There’s a speaker tonight. A lawyer. He’ll be going over some steps to increase personal safety.”

I groaned. I definitely wanted to curl up and unwind.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “What time?”

“8-o’clock. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh… Dress nice.”

“What? Why?” I whined.

Now I was annoyed

“The speaker is Jewish. Your mother would want you to dress nice.”

My annoyance grew.

“Not interested! Definitely not interested.”

Susan knew I’d ended an unhealthy three-year relationship months before and had buried myself more deeply into my marketing and editing work. She had appointed herself as my ‘social coach’ and was eager to guide me back into the dating world.

Plus, from our discussions on the matter, she knew I had an aversion to dating Jewish men (much to my mother’s chagrin). Too many reminded me of the suburban Long Islanders I’d met growing up and at college.

“Maybe he’s for you,” I quipped back at her.

Susan, a petite blond, Italian and Catholic, had a strange on-again, off-again relationship with an older Jewish guy she’d known forever.

“Quiet! Dress nice. Meet you at 8.”

The Meeting

About thirty-to-forty locals were collected in a large basement room when we arrived at the church.

There was a sign-in sheet, for names, phone numbers, and addresses.

Susan and I each recognized several attendees. I remember saying I felt uneasy that I didn’t recognize everyone, wondering, “What if there’s a rapist here, spying on the safety steps we’re taking?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sue responded.

The Speaker

The speaker was cute, I begrudgingly noted to myself. Maybe even handsome, in a way. He looked young, I mean very young.

I joked to Susan about how young he seemed. She laughed at me and chalked it up to my subconscious comparison to my ex-boyfriend, 20+ years older than me.

“He looks married,” I whispered.

“You’re ridiculous,” she repeated. “What does ‘looks married’ look like?”

“I don’t know. It’s a thing he gives off.”

He had a prepared list of safety tips. Nothing “aha!” but all practical. After his presentation, a bunch of us attendees remained to help craft a bulletin to be distributed to all residents, summarizing the speaker’s tips and warning females to walk in pairs, to exercise caution.

We were clustered around a large table, some sitting but most of us standing. I was positioned a bit behind the Speaker at an angle.

A coffee urn with cookies sat off to one side of the room.

“Get me a coffee, light, just milk,” the Speaker suddenly turned his head and said to me over his shoulder.

I was stunned and involuntarily scrunched my face in disbelief at the rudeness.

“Get it yourself!” I replied without raising my voice.

“I’m sorry. (Slight pause) Please, a light coffee, no sugar,” he amended, with an apologetic smile.

He was leading the attendee interaction, answering additional questions. So, having made the point, I acquiesced.

The Follow-up

As a follow-up to the meeting, we planned to distribute the advisory Bulletin to every apartment on our block. No one would walk alone. We’d go in groups of two.

My memory of the block, our Sixteenth Street residents were divided among brownstones and apartments—those on the north side of the street lived in brownstones; the south side included our apartment building, the church, and an assortment of commercial structures with lofts.

Chelsea Lane, our building, consisted of two connected, identical towers, a North Building and a South Building—that stretched fully through, from 15^th to 16^th street, with nearly 500 units among the twelve floors.

Susan and I were pleased at the convenience when the Speaker assigned us the Second Floor of the South building, where we lived.

Distribution Night

We exited the elevator and turned left, carrying our supply of Bulletins and a small pad. We walked to the end of the hall to begin our assignment, 10 apartments on each side of the elevator.

One by one, we knocked on each door. We kept a list of ‘no responses,’ with plans to return the next day to try to contact every unit to emphasize the importance with in-person message delivery.

Finally, we reached the twentieth door, our last stop at the opposite end of the floor. No one answered, so we added that apartment to the list of ‘re-visits’ and headed back toward the elevator to return to our upper floor dwellings.

Voila!

As the elevator doors opened, amusing surprise!

Our very-young-looking Block Association Speaker emerged carrying a briefcase, obviously just returning from work, equally surprised. He invited us back to his apartment, the last one we’d just visited at the furthest end of the strip.

We weren’t there long. He offered us a snack and produced refrigerated cans of soda and a can of Hawaiian macadamia nuts. I remember commenting I’d seen, but never tasted, macadamia nuts because they were so expensive.

That produced a smile. As he opened the fresh can of nuts he told a story about his father, who loved macadamia nuts and who had introduced him to them after discovering them on a trip to Hawaii.

“When my father offered me a taste, he said, ‘Here, try a nut.’ A single nut. And that’s all he offered!”

During the conversation, we learned that Speaker [David] had recently moved to the South Building. Previously, he lived in the North Tower but decided on a change of scenery when his marriage dissolved.

So, he was married after all.

I turned a smug ‘so-there!’ face toward Susan.

“Write your phone numbers down for me, please,” David requested as we were preparing to leave.

On the ride up to our places Susan and I teased each other, “See. He wanted your phone number,” I told her.

“No, yours,” she laughed.

Only one of us was right.

Two days later, my phone rang.

Epilogue

When we think of modes of transportation to meet-ups when dating, we usually think

· By foot

· By train

· By bus

· By car

David and I, however, began traveling up and down that elevator to get together.

Eighteen months later, we eliminated the elevator. I sublet my apartment and moved downstairs.

Two years after that we left Manhattan for a small town in North New Jersey, where we bought and renovated a house.

For work, I began and continued my grueling 4-hour+ commute to Manhattan. David’s commuter patience lasted under a month—he’d passed the Jersey bar and established his practice in local rural Jersey, where we had purchased an office building on Main Street, an old, converted house.

In 1992, a sheet of ice covering our driveway, we piled our two young sons and four dogs into our SUV and waved goodbye to our Jersey life. Sixty hours later we arrived in San Diego.

In all, after that October evening when “I met him at church,” we lived under the same roof for almost thirty years—except for a three-month interval in 1994 when we briefly separated.

Together till the day he died in August 2002.

They saved my life

Anita Charney

October 11, 2006. Late morning.

They had just left the happiest place on earth.

As Mike eased his sedan onto the I-5 North, he and Lorrelle were already planning next year’s trip to Disneyland.

Lorelle was decked out in her Minnie Mouse headband and a Disney t-shirt. She was going to eke every last minute out of the vacation.

Their conversation switched seamlessly between trip highlights and off-key magical kingdom ballads.

The freeway north was fairly empty.

The weather, another beautiful southern California Wednesday, promised easy trails home—Oregon, 980 miles beyond.

The gold SUV, one lane over to the left of them, was traveling at their same speed. It remained equidistant for several uneventful miles.

Then, in an instant, a hiccup ahead!

Both Lorrelle and Mike sensed it.

Something about the way the SUV was moving was not right.

Instinctively, Mike tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He moved over to the far-right to distance himself.

And as quickly as the jolt happened, the SUV made a hard-left 90°-turn, straight into the median.

It crashed through the barrier and burst forward onto the opposite southbound route, tumbling across the multi-lane freeway.

Mike and Lorrelle snapped fully out of their reverie.

As the SUV rolled, Mike headed for the next exit, determined to see what he could do to help. Less than a mile later, they crossed over the bridge leading to the southbound side to circle back.

They surveyed the chaos.

The driver was a woman, slumped unconscious in her seat. She was bleeding profusely. Her head had smashed through the window, glass everywhere.

Home-cooked savory red sauce dripped over the insane mural, front and back. Gravy covered clothing, handbags, suitcases, and the driver’s arms and bloody head.

Lorrelle called 911.

Once she’d alerted highway patrol, Lorrelle reached in and picked up the driver’s cell phone, still wedged tightly in the crease of the passenger seat. She re-dialed the last number the victim had called.

“You don’t know me,” her words poured non-stop into the phone.

“This phone belongs to a woman who just had a car accident, I saw her crash and just called the police, she’s bloody and unconscious, we’re outside Bakersfield, California on Route 5, highway patrol is on the way.”

She answered a few questions, then hung up to await the police.

Moments later, the victim’s phone rang. Lorrelle picked up, a male voice announced the caller was the victim’s son. Calmly, but obviously frightened, he asked about his mother’s location, her condition, her appearance.

“She’s injured. She’s in G-d’s hands,” Lorrelle whispered.

Just then, highway patrol arrived. They took control and the phone from a shaken Lorrelle, informing the caller where the victim would be life-flighted.

Meanwhile, the sons…

The son who had spoken with Lorrelle was Justin, 25, the elder child. He immediately called his younger brother, Ari, 21, mid-semester of his senior year at Berkely.

They made their arrangements. Ari would fly to Justin. And they would drive together to Bakersfield, where their mom and information would be waiting.

Hours later they arrived at the hospital.

Nurses told them their mother was still in a coma.

She’d crushed through the car window, her body was full of lacerations.

Most seriously, she had suffered a brain bleed. It was too early for a meaningful prognosis.

“What does a brain bleed mean?” one asked.

“She suffered brain damage. The extent of the brain damage cannot be assessed at this point,” the nurse replied. She continued to outline.

They couldn’t know until she woke up…

Would she be able to walk, talk, function, think coherently?

Would she remember the accident? Would she recall the moments before?

Would she even recognize her sons?

Amid all this uncertainty, one clear fact:

The strangers’ call had saved their mother’s life, whatever happened next.

52 hours later… October 13, 2006

Alone.

Where am I?

Thoughts pinging into my head, at random, colliding.

I’m lying on my back.

My head feels bound tightly.

A narrow bed. It’s not my room.

Doesn’t feel like a hotel. A clinic? A hospital?

Bandages all over me. I continue to process.

My calm returns. I explore my condition scientifically.

The sheet beneath me feels wet. I’ve soiled myself, I can tell, suddenly feeling the coolness surrounding the moistened bedding.

I try to move my body away from the wetness.

My left leg won’t budge.

My left hand! I can’t move it, I’m alarmed!

I cannot control my left side! It’s frozen in place.

I break into a sweat.

Next issue: “Maybe others, but not me.”

They saved my life

October 11, 2006. Late morning.

They had just left the happiest place on earth.

As Mike eased his sedan onto the I-5 North, he and Lorrelle were already planning next year’s trip to Disneyland.

Lorelle was decked out in her Minnie Mouse headband and a Disney t-shirt. She was going to eke every last minute out of the vacation.

Their conversation switched seamlessly between trip highlights and off-key magical kingdom ballads.

The freeway north was fairly empty.

The weather, another beautiful southern California Wednesday, promised easy trails home—Oregon, 980 miles beyond.

The gold SUV, one lane over to the left of them, was traveling at their same speed. It remained equidistant for several uneventful miles.

Then, in an instant, a hiccup ahead!

Both Lorrelle and Mike sensed it.

Something about the way the SUV was moving was not right.

Instinctively, Mike tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He moved over to the far-right to distance himself.

And as quickly as the jolt happened, the SUV made a hard-left 90°-turn, straight into the median.

It crashed through the barrier and burst forward onto the opposite southbound route, tumbling across the multi-lane freeway.

Mike and Lorrelle snapped fully out of their reverie.

As the SUV rolled, Mike headed for the next exit, determined to see what he could do to help. Less than a mile later, they crossed over the bridge leading to the southbound side to circle back.

They surveyed the chaos.

The driver was a woman, slumped unconscious in her seat. She was bleeding profusely. Her head had smashed through the window, glass everywhere.

Home-cooked savory red sauce dripped over the insane mural, front and back. Gravy covered clothing, handbags, suitcases, and the driver’s arms and bloody head.

Lorrelle called 911.

Once she’d alerted highway patrol, Lorrelle reached in and picked up the driver’s cell phone, still wedged tightly in the crease of the passenger seat. She re-dialed the last number the victim had called.

“You don’t know me,” her words poured non-stop into the phone.

“This phone belongs to a woman who just had a car accident, I saw her crash and just called the police, she’s bloody and unconscious, we’re outside Bakersfield, California on Route 5, highway patrol is on the way.”

She answered a few questions, then hung up to await the police.

Moments later, the victim’s phone rang. Lorrelle picked up, a male voice announced the caller was the victim’s son. Calmly, but obviously frightened, he asked about his mother’s location, her condition, her appearance.

“She’s injured. She’s in G-d’s hands,” Lorrelle whispered.

Just then, highway patrol arrived. They took control and the phone from a shaken Lorrelle, informing the caller where the victim would be life-flighted.

Meanwhile, the sons…

The son who had spoken with Lorrelle was Justin, 25, the elder child. He immediately called his younger brother, Ari, 21, mid-semester of his senior year at Berkely.

They made their arrangements. Ari would fly to Justin. And they would drive together to Bakersfield, where their mom and information would be waiting.

Hours later they arrived at the hospital.

Nurses told them their mother was still in a coma.

She’d crushed through the car window, her body was full of lacerations.

Most seriously, she had suffered a brain bleed. It was too early for a meaningful prognosis.

“What does a brain bleed mean?” one asked.

“She suffered brain damage. The extent of the brain damage cannot be assessed at this point,” the nurse replied. She continued to outline.

They couldn’t know until she woke up…

Would she be able to walk, talk, function, think coherently?

Would she remember the accident? Would she recall the moments before?

Would she even recognize her sons?

Amid all this uncertainty, one clear fact:

The strangers’ call had saved their mother’s life, whatever happened next.

52 hours later… October 13, 2006

Alone.

Where am I?

Thoughts pinging into my head, at random, colliding.

I’m lying on my back.

My head feels bound tightly.

A narrow bed. It’s not my room.

Doesn’t feel like a hotel. A clinic? A hospital?

Bandages all over me. I continue to process.

My calm returns. I explore my condition scientifically.

The sheet beneath me feels wet. I’ve soiled myself, I can tell, suddenly feeling the coolness surrounding the moistened bedding.

I try to move my body away from the wetness.

My left leg won’t budge.

My left hand! I can’t move it, I’m alarmed!

I cannot control my left side! It’s frozen in place.

I break into a sweat.

Next issue: “Maybe others, but not me”

October 11, 2006. Late morning.

They had just left the happiest place on earth.

As Mike eased his sedan onto the I-5 North, he and Lorrelle were already planning next year’s trip to Disneyland.

Lorelle was decked out in her Minnie Mouse headband and a Disney t-shirt. She was going to eke every last minute out of the vacation.

Their conversation switched seamlessly between trip highlights and off-key magical kingdom ballads.

The freeway north was fairly empty.

The weather, another beautiful southern California Wednesday, promised easy trails home—Oregon, 980 miles beyond.

The gold SUV, one lane over to the left of them, was traveling at their same speed. It remained equidistant for several uneventful miles.

Then, in an instant, a hiccup ahead!

Both Lorrelle and Mike sensed it.

Something about the way the SUV was moving was not right.

Instinctively, Mike tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He moved over to the far-right to distance himself.

And as quickly as the jolt happened, the SUV made a hard-left 90°-turn, straight into the median.

It crashed through the barrier and burst forward onto the opposite southbound route, tumbling across the multi-lane freeway.

Mike and Lorrelle snapped fully out of their reverie.

As the SUV rolled, Mike headed for the next exit, determined to see what he could do to help. Less than a mile later, they crossed over the bridge leading to the southbound side to circle back.

They surveyed the chaos.

The driver was a woman, slumped unconscious in her seat. She was bleeding profusely. Her head had smashed through the window, glass everywhere.

Home-cooked savory red sauce dripped over the insane mural, front and back. Gravy covered clothing, handbags, suitcases, and the driver’s arms and bloody head.

Lorrelle called 911.

Once she’d alerted highway patrol, Lorrelle reached in and picked up the driver’s cell phone, still wedged tightly in the crease of the passenger seat. She re-dialed the last number the victim had called.

“You don’t know me,” her words poured non-stop into the phone.

“This phone belongs to a woman who just had a car accident, I saw her crash and just called the police, she’s bloody and unconscious, we’re outside Bakersfield, California on Route 5, highway patrol is on the way.”

She answered a few questions, then hung up to await the police.

Moments later, the victim’s phone rang. Lorrelle picked up, a male voice announced the caller was the victim’s son. Calmly, but obviously frightened, he asked about his mother’s location, her condition, her appearance.

“She’s injured. She’s in G-d’s hands,” Lorrelle whispered.

Just then, highway patrol arrived. They took control and the phone from a shaken Lorrelle, informing the caller where the victim would be life-flighted.

Meanwhile, the sons…

The son who had spoken with Lorrelle was Justin, 25, the elder child. He immediately called his younger brother, Ari, 21, mid-semester of his senior year at Berkely.

They made their arrangements. Ari would fly to Justin. And they would drive together to Bakersfield, where their mom and information would be waiting.

Hours later they arrived at the hospital.

Nurses told them their mother was still in a coma.

She’d crushed through the car window, her body was full of lacerations.

Most seriously, she had suffered a brain bleed. It was too early for a meaningful prognosis.

“What does a brain bleed mean?” one asked.

“She suffered brain damage. The extent of the brain damage cannot be assessed at this point,” the nurse replied. She continued to outline.

They couldn’t know until she woke up…

Would she be able to walk, talk, function, think coherently?

Would she remember the accident? Would she recall the moments before?

Would she even recognize her sons?

Amid all this uncertainty, one clear fact:

The strangers’ call had saved their mother’s life, whatever happened next.

52 hours later… October 13, 2006

Alone.

Where am I?

Thoughts pinging into my head, at random, colliding.

I’m lying on my back.

My head feels bound tightly.

A narrow bed. It’s not my room.

Doesn’t feel like a hotel. A clinic? A hospital?

Bandages all over me. I continue to process.

My calm returns. I explore my condition scientifically.

The sheet beneath me feels wet. I’ve soiled myself, I can tell, suddenly feeling the coolness surrounding the moistened bedding.

I try to move my body away from the wetness.

My left leg won’t budge.

My left hand! I can’t move it, I’m alarmed!

I cannot control my left side! It’s frozen in place.

I break into a sweat.

Next issue: What do you mean, I have brain damage?

I was 45. Mom was 1 day shy of 80.

We were living in North New Jersey, four miles from each other.

My brother Len had driven in from Massachusetts for the holiday weekend.

We’d lingered over elaborate dinners and long chats at Mom’s both evenings.

Sunday morning.

Len was loading his car to return to MA.

We’d said our goodbyes the night before.

So, I was surprised, maybe more than a little annoyed, when I picked up my ringing phone at 11:00 am.

“You need to come over,” Mom ordered when I answered. “I have to tell you something. Bring the whole family,” she insisted.

“Urgent,” she added to my silence.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Why couldn’t she tell me over the phone?

“I need to tell you in person,” she insisted. “Bring the family,” she repeated.

“What’s so urgent? You couldn’t tell me last night when I was there? We were all there, for hours!” I whined.

Persistent. She would not discuss it on the phone.

As soon as we arrived, she shooed my two sons to her family room.

When only adults remained in the living room, she shattered the silence.

“I have cancer,” she blurted.

Shocked, we all looked at each other, momentarily wordless.

“What makes you say that?” I demanded.

“I have a growth,” she replied.

“Where?”

“On the side of my breast.”

“Show me,” I ordered, softer.

“Anita, come,” as she led me to her bedroom…

She lifted her loose sweatshirt to reveal an enormous, golf ball-sized growth protruding from the side of her left breast.

I stopped breathing. My legs weak. Stunned.

Perched atop the upper section of breast, a clearly defined mass bulged outward. Instinctively, I knew this beast had not just suddenly appeared.

Nothing grows that rapidly on an 80-year-old body.

There was no purpose challenging her version of the timeline.

Would she have answered honestly had I asked?

How long had she watched the invader increase in size?

When did she first notice it? Terrified. Covering it up. Willing and praying for it to disappear.

Had there been a single day, a waking moment when she hadn’t wrung her hands and tortured herself?

Forty years have passed since that morning in her living room.

Odd, how the memory selects which details to preserve clearly.

I remember nothing more about that Sunday.

Obviously, we made doctor phone calls. 21 hours later, I led Mom to her first doctor’s office visit. Together, we completed her physician’s intake questionnaire.

When she responded “NO” to a question about former hospitalizations, I reminded her of a procedure she’d had soon after my father died 15 years earlier.

She’d gone for removal of bleeding polyps, but she could offer no further information about the hospital visit.

When our NJ doctor investigated, he learned she’d had colon cancer but ignored instructions to return to the hospital for post-op follow-up.

“I never knew that!” Mom claimed.

On reflection now, she likely knew, but kept it a secret. I know how Mom thought: If it was a secret, it never happened.

The next few days, then weeks, were a whirlwind.

I flew into battle mode. She sat by my side as I made the calls. She climbed into the car when I arrived to drive her to each appointment.

Doctor visits. Scheduling. Surgery. Post-op. New doctors.

Yes, it was cancer. “The Big C” Mom had always called it.

Yes, a mastectomy.

Chemo was the recommendation, radiation to follow. Terrified, she refused both.

She agreed to take Tamoxifen daily for five years. After the required five years, she convinced her oncologist to extend the Tamoxifen for an additional two years.

I got it. So did the oncologist, the daily ritual was her prescriptive crutch.

Looking back, the entire experience was mind-blowing to me.

Her life had been marked by family cancer, especially breast cancer. Mom’s two sisters, both much older, had been struck with breast cancer.

One sister, a mastectomy. The other, double mastectomy.

Every female on my mother’s side of the family had had breast cancer.

Yet,

My mother had never once had a mammogram.

Never once seen a gynecologist.

Sadly, as close as Mom and I had been, as often as she had shared her fears with me, I had never thought of asking her about her own gynecological visits. I could have easily known she’d avoided them because of her fear.

We might have obviated her surgery…I’d have insisted on scheduling an exam, holding her hand as I drove her to the first and all subsequent visits, long before her lump appeared.

A changed landscape

Nowadays, we have the internet.

Online coaching. Seminars. Courses. Workshops. Blogs and podcasts.

Unlimited free resources to educate and guide us through most anything.

How to overcome fear. How to conquer our demons and move forward.

Of course, Mom didn’t have that. Even if all this had existed for her, she wouldn’t have availed herself of it.

Mom’s was a different generation, a completely different mindset-- “psychological theory” was high-fallutin’ terminology that didn’t figure into her world.

“Action plan” did not exist—she called them “to-do” lists.

Those to-do lists were not tasks that led her to overturn roadblocks step by step.

Mom’s “action plans” were the practical shopping lists, the cleaning, cooking and freezing tasks she needed to accomplish throughout her week, in and around her fulltime job.

Her response to fear was to pull an ostrich, bury her head in the sand and wish it away.

Total avoidance.

Her huge self-delusion.

Truth, what kind of avoidance was it? Once she became aware of the lump, I couldn’t then…I still cannot comprehend the enormity of her fear.

No arms were long enough to wrap around the terror that must have gripped her.

No blindfold could erase the fact growing beneath her sweatshirt.

Epilogue:

Mom’s body healed. Though she lived nearly another decade, her spirit and resilience never returned fully.

Mom, the answer to my queries today will remain unanswered for eternity.

When did you first see or feel the growth? How long did you know?

In your memory, Mom, I dedicate this first newsletter issue to you and your legacy…to all Ladies Above the Speed Limit. Breast cancer continues to plague us 20+ years after your death. As we await a cure, let us all commit to proactivity.

Reader Takeaways: Take Action

1. Annual mammogram once you’re 40+

2. For any growth, seek prompt medical advice

3. Fear will not control me. I might choose to ask my most trusted person to hold my hand as I devise an action plan to break through my fears. Online plans and advice, books to help me…I will act.

Coming next issue:

“I owe my life to Disneyland” (a personal true story)

I was 45. Mom was 1 day shy of 80.

We were living in North New Jersey, four miles from each other.

My brother Len had driven in from Massachusetts for the holiday weekend.

We’d lingered over elaborate dinners and long chats at Mom’s both evenings.

Sunday morning.

Len was loading his car to return to MA.

We’d said our goodbyes the night before.

So, I was surprised, maybe more than a little annoyed, when I picked up my ringing phone at 11:00 am.

“You need to come over,” Mom ordered when I answered. “I have to tell you something. Bring the whole family,” she insisted.

“Urgent,” she added to my silence.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Why couldn’t she tell me over the phone?

“I need to tell you in person,” she insisted. “Bring the family,” she repeated.

“What’s so urgent? You couldn’t tell me last night when I was there? We were all there, for hours!” I whined.

Persistent. She would not discuss it on the phone.

As soon as we arrived, she shooed my two sons to her family room.

When only adults remained in the living room, she shattered the silence.

“I have cancer,” she blurted.

Shocked, we all looked at each other, momentarily wordless.

“What makes you say that?” I demanded.

“I have a growth,” she replied.

“Where?”

“On the side of my breast.”

“Show me,” I ordered, softer.

“Anita, come,” as she led me to her bedroom…

She lifted her loose sweatshirt to reveal an enormous, golf ball-sized growth protruding from the side of her left breast.

I stopped breathing. My legs weak. Stunned.

Perched atop the upper section of breast, a clearly defined mass bulged outward. Instinctively, I knew this beast had not just suddenly appeared.

Nothing grows that rapidly on an 80-year-old body.

There was no purpose challenging her version of the timeline.

Would she have answered honestly had I asked?

How long had she watched the invader increase in size?

When did she first notice it? Terrified. Covering it up. Willing and praying for it to disappear.

Had there been a single day, a waking moment when she hadn’t wrung her hands and tortured herself?

Forty years have passed since that morning in her living room.

Odd, how the memory selects which details to preserve clearly.

I remember nothing more about that Sunday.

Obviously, we made doctor phone calls. 21 hours later, I led Mom to her first doctor’s office visit. Together, we completed her physician’s intake questionnaire.

When she responded “NO” to a question about former hospitalizations, I reminded her of a procedure she’d had soon after my father died 15 years earlier.

She’d gone for removal of bleeding polyps, but she could offer no further information about the hospital visit.

When our NJ doctor investigated, he learned she’d had colon cancer but ignored instructions to return to the hospital for post-op follow-up.

“I never knew that!” Mom claimed.

On reflection now, she likely knew, but kept it a secret. I know how Mom thought: If it was a secret, it never happened.

The next few days, then weeks, were a whirlwind.

I flew into battle mode. She sat by my side as I made the calls. She climbed into the car when I arrived to drive her to each appointment.

Doctor visits. Scheduling. Surgery. Post-op. New doctors.

Yes, it was cancer. “The Big C” Mom had always called it.

Yes, a mastectomy.

Chemo was the recommendation, radiation to follow. Terrified, she refused both.

She agreed to take Tamoxifen daily for five years. After the required five years, she convinced her oncologist to extend the Tamoxifen for an additional two years.

I got it. So did the oncologist, the daily ritual was her prescriptive crutch.

Looking back, the entire experience was mind-blowing to me.

Her life had been marked by family cancer, especially breast cancer. Mom’s two sisters, both much older, had been struck with breast cancer.

One sister, a mastectomy. The other, double mastectomy.

Every female on my mother’s side of the family had had breast cancer.

Yet,

My mother had never once had a mammogram.

Never once seen a gynecologist.

Sadly, as close as Mom and I had been, as often as she had shared her fears with me, I had never thought of asking her about her own gynecological visits. I could have easily known she’d avoided them because of her fear.

We might have obviated her surgery…I’d have insisted on scheduling an exam, holding her hand as I drove her to the first and all subsequent visits, long before her lump appeared.

A changed landscape

Nowadays, we have the internet.

Online coaching. Seminars. Courses. Workshops. Blogs and podcasts.

Unlimited free resources to educate and guide us through most anything.

How to overcome fear. How to conquer our demons and move forward.

Of course, Mom didn’t have that. Even if all this had existed for her, she wouldn’t have availed herself of it.

Mom’s was a different generation, a completely different mindset-- “psychological theory” was high-fallutin’ terminology that didn’t figure into her world.

“Action plan” did not exist—she called them “to-do” lists.

Those to-do lists were not tasks that led her to overturn roadblocks step by step.

Mom’s “action plans” were the practical shopping lists, the cleaning, cooking and freezing tasks she needed to accomplish throughout her week, in and around her fulltime job.

Her response to fear was to pull an ostrich, bury her head in the sand and wish it away.

Total avoidance.

Her huge self-delusion.

Truth, what kind of avoidance was it? Once she became aware of the lump, I couldn’t then…I still cannot comprehend the enormity of her fear.

No arms were long enough to wrap around the terror that must have gripped her.

No blindfold could erase the fact growing beneath her sweatshirt.

Epilogue:

Mom’s body healed. Though she lived nearly another decade, her spirit and resilience never returned fully.

Mom, the answer to my queries today will remain unanswered for eternity.

When did you first see or feel the growth? How long did you know?

In your memory, Mom, I dedicate this first newsletter issue to you and your legacy…to all Ladies Above the Speed Limit. Breast cancer continues to plague us 20+ years after your death. As we await a cure, let us all commit to proactivity.

Reader Takeaways: Take Action

1. Annual mammogram once you’re 40+

2. For any growth, seek prompt medical advice

3. Fear will not control me. I might choose to ask my most trusted person to hold my hand as I devise an action plan to break through my fears. Online plans and advice, books to help me…I will act.

Coming next issue:

“I owe my life to Disneyland” (a personal true story)