TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 217

[Tobie Shapiro]

May 10, 2000007


Dear Members of the Elite Group of the Pinnacle,

	We got over our nasty heat wave here in 
the San Francisco Bay Area.  It was frightful. 
Well, I react poorly to the heat.  Really poorly. 
But there isn't a person in this household who 
does well on hot days.  Meyshe and I are the 
worst.  The first day of the wave, when I went 
outside early in the morning to take Feyna to the 
BART station, it was already too sunny and too 
warm.  Had to turn the air conditioner on in the 
car.  Here I am, slapping the ozone layer aside 
so I don't suffer and get heat stroke.  I am the 
problem.  By the time the day got going, I had to 
hunt in my closet and drawers for something, 
anything, light weight to wear.  I have an old 
pink tunic T-shirt that I purchased at The Gap 
right after the fire in 1991.  It's made of thin 
cotton material, and I've worn it so much that 
there are holes all over it, at the collar, at 
the seams, in the middle of the fabric.  Very 
fashionable.  It looks really ratty, but I didn't 
frankly care.  I put that on and found a 
diaphanous blouse to wear over the pink tunic 
T-shirt.  The blouse was primarily to have a 
pocket to keep pens and notes in.

	Someone ought to invent a portable pocket 
that would be worn on top of any outfit, and 
would have ample room in it for pens, pencils, 
money, shopping list.  Just the essentials.  Just 
sling the thing around your waist, or around your 
neck and go out into the world without cumbersome 
purse.  But no one has invented that yet, so I 
wore the blouse.

	Sandals, I wore sandals, too.  No socks. 
I couldn't imagine having to wear socks and 
shoes.  I pinned my hair up on top of my head.  I 
avoided going outside at all, but there were 
things I had to do.  I had to take Meyshe to his 
therapist at 3:30 p.m., the peak of the heat of 
the day.  And there was no place to park close 
by, so we wound up parking a block away.  A block 
of walking with my heavy book bag (carrying my 
writing supplies and appointment calendar) was 
going to be a blast of heat too much.  When I 
started to back into the parking place, Meyshe 
said, "I don't want you to park here.  It's too 
far.  I'm worried about your health."   The heat 
had already gotten to me.  I snapped back, "Well 
where am I going to park?  There were no places 
closer to the building.  I don't have much of a 
choice, do I!"  And then, having spouted some 
steam, I calmed down a little, apologized for 
snapping at him.  He was just caring about me, 
trying to watch over my well being.  He takes it 
very hard whenever I am sharp with him.  I made 
my apology meaningful.  And I felt awful about 
it.  That has to count for something, right? 
"This was my fault, Meyshe.  You were being 
loving and protective of my health.  The heat 
made me snap at you, and there's no excuse for 
that.  I am so sorry.  You didn't do anything 
wrong.  Believe that."  He asked if there were 
anything he could do to help me on the walk to 
the building.  I said, "Yes!  You can carry my 
book bag if you could.  That would really help 
me.  Thank you so much."  And of course, he did.

	That evening, it barely cooled off.  Even 
though my mother's house is well insulated, the 
upstairs gets pretty hot, and it doesn't 
dissipate by evening.  So my room was like a 
little convection oven.  Convection because I 
turned a fan on to circulate the air.  I wore the 
skimpiest night clothes I have, slept with the 
covers off, the sheets off.  That didn't do it. 
So, I hunted for an extension cord, brought it 
upstairs and was then able to move the fan 
practically on top of the bed, where I trained it 
right on my head.  FOOOM!  A blast of cool air 
blew directly upon me while I lay there at night. 
The next day was a little bit cooler, but the 
room hadn't cooled down yet at all.  In fact, it 
seemed to have heated up.  Isn't it marvellous 
how energy can be stored!  But now, it's been 
back to the regular cool temperatures for a 
couple of days, and I'm beginning to breathe more 
easily.  You know what the kicker is?  The kicker 
is listening to the foffing weatherman as he 
smiles his big grin and announces what a 
beautiful day it is!  In the nineties!  Go get 
your beach towel and your sand bucket, a bottle 
of sun screen, and hit the beaches!  It'll cool 
off in a couple of days, so enjoy the warmth 
while you can.  I want to swat him.




 
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It's a Miracle, Tammy Faye!

	Feyna had her first serious illness when 
she was eight months old.  She'd never been sick 
before, not even a cold.  Then one night, I heard 
her rustling on the baby monitor.  I went in and 
stood over her in her crib.  She seemed to be 
lying there quite peacefully.  Suddenly she 
spewed a geyser of vomit that sprayed the crib, 
me and the walls on the way up, and herself and 
the bedding on the way down.  I felt her 
forehead.  She was burning up.

	I called the doctor and the doctor told 
me what to do.  Put her in a tub of cool water to 
lower her body temperature; watch her for further 
signs and call in the morning.  Nowhere in all 
the instructions was a suggestion that I wash the 
puke out of her hair, her clothes, the bedding, 
her skin.  It was even between her little toes. 
So I drew several baths.  The first was to soap 
her down and hose her off.  The second was a 
repeat of the first.  The third was the bath in 
cool water to lower her temperature.  She was 
silent.  No crying, no moaning, not a complaint. 
She just sat there in the tub letting me pour the 
cool water over her.  A quiet, motionless baby 
was foreign to me, even unsettling.  I'd grown 
used to constant noise.  There was always 
somebody crying.  If it weren't Feyna or Meyshe, 
then it was I.  Sometimes, when there was no one 
to help me, and they were disconsolate, it was 
all three of us, clutching each other, 
overwhelmed, riding the miserable waves of 
confusion, panic.

	I took her with me to wash the crib 
sheets and her blanket.  I held her and let her 
sip from a bottle of cold water.  This was an all 
night affair.  By daybreak, the crib was refitted 
with clean sheets and bumpers, the blanket 
smelled like fresh air, and we were both back in 
the nursery.  It was time for Meyshe to wake up. 
He was his noisy frenetic self, his arms and legs 
going all at once, his appetite for amusement 
insatiable.  I looked at the clock on the wall. 
It was six.  It would be ten o'clock before help 
arrived.  Four hours seemed like a very long 
time.  And it was.  Feyna, still listless, lay on 
her back, sleeping through the predicament. 
Meyshe was healthy, no projectile vomiting.  I 
was shaky, exhausted, continuing to do what I had 
to do.  I suppose there is a sort of physical 
override that kicks in when you're a mom, and the 
children need you.  Any personal discomfort or 
weariness is completely ignored.  You keep going 
forward, as if you were rested, sane, strong. 
It's got to be bad for your health.

	David stayed home from work for the 
morning.  He read his physics papers in the 
bedroom.  He came in every once in a while to 
check on how Feyna was doing.  Of course, I 
resented him reclining against some pillows on 
the bed, with important work to do, not giving me 
a break.  I think I muttered under my breath.

	A little before ten o'clock, Linda Grey 
arrived.  She was a very young woman with four 
children, all under the age of six.  She and her 
husband were planning another pregnancy.  It made 
my eyes bug out:  turning embryos into infants as 
an occupation.  Brenda wore long skirts and 
boots, blouses with long sleeves and high 
collars.  Not too much of her skin was ever 
showing.  The modesty was a directive from her 
church.  She'd told me about being born again, 
how she'd been a bad bad sinner, had fornicated, 
caroused, kept bad company, taken the Lord's name 
in vain.  She'd been a lost soul, without 
direction, without a personal relationship with 
Jesus.  Whenever she mentioned Jesus, she added 
the parenthetical, "Our Lord and Saviour,"  Jesus 
was never without that suffix.  Then, when she 
and her husband were busy misbehaving, Jesus, our 
Lord and Saviour, came to them and they were born 
again.  She was brimming with fresh ardor for her 
faith, vibrating with pure belief.  Brenda 
belonged to a Pentecostal sect: dancing, talking 
in tongues, rolling in the aisles, shouting and 
rejoicing, throwing happy fits for Jesus Christ. 
It was for Christ that she was popping out the 
babies, for Christ that she did her work, thought 
her thoughts, nourished herself, took care of her 
children, brushed her teeth, paid her bills, said 
her prayers all day and all night.  Brenda had 
focus.

	She once asked me if it would be all 
right with me if she told Meyshe and Feyna, ". . 
. that God made the trees and the grass, because 
He did, and teach them about the Lord."

	I said, "Brenda, you can tell them that 
God made the trees, but they're six months old. 
They won't understand you."

	"Can I tell them about the ways of the Lord?"

	"I really think that I'd better be the 
one to teach them about religious matters.  You 
know that we're Jewish."  I waited for her 
response.  I was afraid she wanted to baptize 
them, initiate them into some obscure fanatical 
Christian denomination.  Their first words would 
be, "Jesus," or, the full throttle, the whole 
thing, "Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour.  Save 
this poor miserable worm.  Bring me forth into 
eternal life, through your mercies, amen."  I had 
been hoping that their first words would be more 
like, "Oy gevalt!"  So I had to watch out for 
Brenda's designs on my babies.  She had no 
designs on me.  I think she knew not to try to 
convert the Jew lady.  God only knows what hell 
she thought I'd be going to.

	When Brenda showed up for work that 
morning, Feyna was peaceably burning up in her 
crib.  David was seated on the single bed that 
was set up in the nursery.  He was reading the 
newspaper.  He didn't even look up.  His head was 
hidden behind the open pages.  I explained to 
Brenda that Feyna was very sick, retold the story 
of the volcanic vomit, the baths, the 
instructions from the pediatrician.  I gave her 
an out, offering that if she wanted to avoid 
being exposed to Feyna's illness, since she had 
young children, she could go home.  But she 
decided to slug it out with the germs.  Her 
weapon was Jesus.  No one could hurt her.

	I have often wondered what it must be 
like to be possessed by such certainty.  Being 
raised Jewish, we were commanded to ask 
questions, to doubt, to analyze the facts.  All 
beliefs would have to stand up to perverse 
scrutiny.  Here was Brenda Grey, young, pure, 
awestruck, simply believing in what she was told 
to believe in.  And she was happier than I was by 
a long shot.

	"Can I say a prayer for Feyna?" she asked 
me, with an earnestness that transformed all of 
her interactions into little holy moments.  I 
thought about this.  Whom was it going to hurt if 
she went off in a corner and uttered a prayer?

	"Of course, you can," I nodded my assent.

	"Thank you," she said, with too much 
gratitude. She marched over to the crib, reached 
down in, put the flat of her hand on Feyna's 
forehead, looked up at the ceiling and hollered. 
"Jesus, Lord and Saviour.  You know this child 
better than any of us.  Bless this child and make 
her well!  Deliver her from the throes of this 
evil sickness.  Oh Jesus, our Lord and Saviour, 
have mercy upon this helpless child.  Bring her 
into your holy presence, guide her to you.  Oh 
help this . . . "

	This went on for a while.  It was noisy. 
It was shocking.  It was not what I had expected. 
I didn't know whether I should drag Brenda away 
from the crib or just let her knock herself out. 
I looked over at David behind his newspaper.  The 
bold headline was screaming about the old Jimmy 
Bakker scandal.  This was a televangelist who'd 
bilked his faithful out of millions of holy 
dollars and bribed a female employee with 
$265,000 to keep quiet about their holy affair. 
It had been a big, loud story.  And it was great 
background for Brenda's born again prayer.

	David lowered the newspaper so that his 
eyes were showing.  He wiggled his eyebrows at 
me.  I smiled back, wiggling my own eyebrows.

	Tammy Faye, come get your husband.  Tammy 
Faye, please come pick up your husband.



 
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Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net