Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Terrible Twos... avoidable or inevitable?
People have come up to me asking whether he has gone through his terrible twos yet and frankly, I find that questions incredibly insulting. The phase terrible twos does not exonerate the parents from any accountability of their child's behavior. Its a reflection of the lack of preparation the parent(s) have impart on their child for the next phase in their journey. Discipline does not start when they throw their first tantrum. It starts the first time they are doing something that they should not be doing and the knowledge they are keenly aware of their actions.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Sheryl Sandberg
Today
is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days.
Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts
seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal
activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the
completion of religious mourning for a spouse.
A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.
I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.
But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.
And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.
I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.
I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.
I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.
I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.
I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.
I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.
I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.
For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.
At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.
I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.
I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.
I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.
I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”
Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.
A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.
I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.
But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.
And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.
I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.
I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.
I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.
I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.
I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.
I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.
I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.
For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.
At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.
I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.
I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.
I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.
I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”
Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Twentyfourteen
What is love but a feeling? A feeling learned and nurtured by our environment. A feeling so powerful, it transcends hate. A four letter word; desired to be heard by most, feared by a few.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
profound love for President Barry Soetoro
Those who walked across the aisle liked what they saw; a cool guy who gave great speeches. They liked the way Barry presented himself and they thought he was different. He is after
all the "first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright
and clean and a nice-looking guy" as his VP had once put it. I found
Harry Reid's comments far more amusing “light-skinned” and had “no Negro
dialect, unless he wanted to have one.” Wonderful that they have man
crushes on him, but when was the last time a CEO got elected with ABSOLUTELY no experience. Barry ran for the most important job in America with no meat on his resume AND he got
elected TWICE!!! What a sad reflection on where this nation is heading. Gone are the admiration and appreciation for accomplishments and traditional values; replaced by the hooligans of OWS. We live in a world where the Noble Peace prize is awarded to the most popular kid in the class and words only need to sound and make us feel good. The American dream was the reward for those who put in the long hours, worked hard, saved their money to buy their home and car. That was when you can tell everyone back home you made it and you did it all on your own. You stood on your own two feet. No one helped you. And now? Yes, you can and everyone can have it too. Yes, the government can redistribute more of your money from the haves to the haves-not because the government believes everyone deserves to have what you have. Why? Because no one really stands on their own two feet; someone helped you along the way, says President Barry. So, to everyone who kept their head down and hustled to make a better life, sacrificed their family time, took out loans, made a gamble to start their business, here is a big middle finger from the President to you.
Some people are walking back from the other side; different isnt always better and in this case, its worst as they now see with the implementation of ACA. But some are still in the tank for Barry. Those are the votes that you simply can not win because its an emotional choice or a financial choice for them. They see a man who understands them and speaks their language, he is of their colour, they see dollar signs when they see him. About '47 percent' of this country feel this way. It is those same 47 percent who do not pay federal income tax so of course they agree with all the new programs and taxes that Barry is proposing. Why not? No skin off their back.
I will give credit to this administration for doing an exceptional job on separating the White House and the government and the policies they have been imposing on the investment bank industry. To have the boss fault the investment banks for their practices when they were just following orders from the boss is priceless. To have the boss blame the government for not working together is truly precious. The boss is ingenious to be able to shift the negative focus from himself onto his staff and followers. And to have the general population follow his lead is to have a profound blindness for truth and logic.
Some people are walking back from the other side; different isnt always better and in this case, its worst as they now see with the implementation of ACA. But some are still in the tank for Barry. Those are the votes that you simply can not win because its an emotional choice or a financial choice for them. They see a man who understands them and speaks their language, he is of their colour, they see dollar signs when they see him. About '47 percent' of this country feel this way. It is those same 47 percent who do not pay federal income tax so of course they agree with all the new programs and taxes that Barry is proposing. Why not? No skin off their back.
I will give credit to this administration for doing an exceptional job on separating the White House and the government and the policies they have been imposing on the investment bank industry. To have the boss fault the investment banks for their practices when they were just following orders from the boss is priceless. To have the boss blame the government for not working together is truly precious. The boss is ingenious to be able to shift the negative focus from himself onto his staff and followers. And to have the general population follow his lead is to have a profound blindness for truth and logic.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
NFL lockout
Hopefully the NFL and NFLPA will come to an agreement soon and do not disappoint the fans.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Sanchez and Aiden Binkley
FLORHAM PARK, N.J. -- Mark Sanchez went to work Tuesday, preparing for a big football game. Some 40 miles away, a little boy from Queens, N.Y., was buried -- a friend of the New York Jets quarterback.Sanchez and Aiden Binkley, 11, met each other only a few weeks ago, but they became fast friends. Binkley was suffering from a rare form of cancer, and he had only two wishes -- he wanted his two brothers to stay healthy and he wanted to meet Sanchez.
And so he did.
And, finally, Sanchez. The people who were there say Aiden's face lit up like Broadway at night.
"He sat there, beaming and smiling," said Aiden's mother, Lisa Binkley, who initially wasn't sure if it was a good idea to make the trip because Aiden was in such pain.
"Nothing meant more to him than coming here and meeting Mark and meeting the Jets," Keller said quietly Wednesday in the Jets' locker room. "Great kid ... a tough situation."
The 24-year-old quarterback was immediately taken by Aiden and his upbeat personality and his love of the Jets. A few days later, Sanchez & Co. beat the Steelers in Pittsburgh -- the biggest win of the season -- and Sanchez sent his new friend a game ball.
Sanchez was deeply touched by Aiden, who battled rhabdomyosarcoma, according to a 2008 New York Daily News article. There was a lemon-sized tumor that spread from his pelvis to his lungs, and he required 60 weeks of chemotherapy.
They became texting buddies and, one day, Sanchez surprised Aiden's parents by asking, "Can I come over?" When Sanchez arrived, the boy was sleeping. Sanchez sat at Aiden's feet, waiting until he woke up.
"He opened his eyes and there was Mark, sitting on the couch," Lisa said. "He was so sweet."
They ended up having a long conversation, like a couple of old friends. Aiden took Sanchez to his bedroom and showed him his sports stuff, including his hockey stick. He gave Sanchez a camouflage bracelet with the inscription "Binkley's Battle." Sanchez and Keller were wearing the bracelets Wednesday in the Jets' locker room.
"My man, Aiden ... breaks my heart," Sanchez said Tuesday during his weekly spot on "The Michael Kay Show" on 1050 ESPN Radio. "He's so tough."
Sanchez, choked with emotion, paused several times as he talked about Aiden, whom he met through the Teddy Atlas Foundation. Atlas, the boxing trainer and ESPN analyst, was a Jets special assistant under former coach Eric Mangini.
"He brought me so much inspiration. ... It's hard to talk about him," Sanchez said. "He meant the world to me. I felt like I've known him forever. ... I saw his personality. I saw his competitive spirit. I saw him fighting every day.
"I'm complaining about a shoulder. Are you kidding me? ... I think he was 11 years old, and he has cancer eating away at his body," Sanchez continued. "This kid is fighting every day. He's smiling every time I talk to him. I visited him at his home. I mean, he has to get carried up the stairs because he's so weak and all he wants to talk about is LT [LaDainian Tomlinson] and Darrelle Revis and Rex Ryan and me.
"Oh, man, it kills you, just thinking about it. I love him to death."
Sanchez was sitting at his locker before facing the Steelers, going over the game plan one last time, when he received a text from Aiden. His friend was concerned about the chilly weather.
"He's saying, 'It looks cold out there in Pittsburgh. I'm glad I'm watching from home. Good luck,'" Sanchez said with a chuckle. "Little stuff like that really fires you up."
After the game, Aiden fired off a congratulatory text to Sanchez. Don't expect a return text, his mother warned, explaining that Sanchez would be too busy to answer an 11-year-old boy. So they watched his postgame news conference on TV, never imagining they'd hear from him.
About 20 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Sanchez.
"We were blown away," Lisa said.
In his final days, Aiden's cancer was so unbearable that he couldn't get out of bed. But he kept his phone close by, just in case his friend Mark decided to call or text.
"He'd be lying in bed, in such pain, and the phone would ring -- and he'd smile," Lisa said.
Funny thing about Sanchez's texts: Instead of a simple, inspirational message, he always posed a question, trying to initiate a conversation.
Their friendship was born at a difficult time for Sanchez. The Jets were on a two-game losing streak after being embarrassed by the New England Patriots 45-3 and showing no energy in a 10-6 loss to the Miami Dolphins. Even Ryan admitted he thought about pulling his franchise quarterback from the Miami game.
"I'm not a happy camper, I'm upset, I'm frustrated," Sanchez said. "I want to make it right. I want to hurry up and play another game."
Along came Aiden.
"All I hear from someone is, 'There's a youngster who's terminally ill with cancer and all he wants to do is meet you,'" Sanchez said. "It changes your whole world. It stops everything. You get a chance to step back. It's really close to my heart. ... He's the best. I love him."
Keith Sullivan, an Atlas Foundation board member, was struck by Sanchez's sincerity. In that initial meeting, Sanchez and Aiden exchanged cell phone numbers, with Sanchez telling the boy, "I'll shoot you a text later. We'll talk." And Sullivan hoped it wasn't just lip service, a millionaire athlete trying to appease a starstruck kid.
Sanchez called. They talked.
"Aiden had a smile on his face for the last three weeks of his life," Sullivan said.
Aiden lost his courageous battle last Thursday. Before the Jets' game last Sunday against the Buffalo Bills, the Jets honored him with a moment of silence.
Rich Cimini covers the Jets for ESPNNewYork.com.
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