Issue138 by Ami Magazine

HERE FIRST! RECIPES FROM PAULA SHOYER’S THE HOLIDAY KOSHER BAKER, INCLUDING OMBRÉ CAKE AND MORE

OCTOBER 9, 2013 / 5 CHESHVAN 5774 ISSUE 138

REBBETZIN ROCHEL ORENSTEIN WAS MORE THAN JUST MY NEIGHBOR

>>> THE REBBETZIN SPEAKS DON’T BEAT YOURSELF UP

NEW COLUMN! SECRET RESTAURANT RECIPES

>>> TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES AM I OBLIGATED TO TELL

ISSUE 138 OCTOBER 9, 2013 5 CHESHVAN 5774

THE BOY’S PARENTS THAT THEIR SON IS FOOLING THEM?

Perfect Results:

>>> PARENTING CAN YOU TRUST YOUR BABYSITTER? >>>

Paula Shoyer is with you in the kitchen

OUR DAYS A LETTER FROM YOUR THERAPIST >>> WHISK NEW COLUMN! SECRET RESTAURANT RECIPES

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WHEN HAVING A BABY IS A DOUBLE BLESSING

10/3/13 8:30 PM

CONTENTS

5 Cheshvan 5774 October 9, 2013

Features 18 Truth or Consequences

Should I tell the bachur’s parents where he was really headed? By Chaya Gross

20 The Clean Bill

When a bundle of joy comes along with the gift of healing By Racheli Sofer

28 My Neighbor, My Mentor Rebbetzin Rochel Orenstein By Yedida Wolfe

32 Parenting

How do I know that my babysitter is the right choice? By Chaya Silber

28 NEW COLUMN! SECRET RESTAURANT RECIPES

Departments 4

ISSUE 138 OCTOBER 9, 2013 5 CHESHVAN 5774

Editorial

Perfect Results:

By Rechy Frankfurter

Letters

The Rebbetzin Speaks

Inside Whisk

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

10 Parshah

By Basha Majerczyk

in Whisk

12 Bytes By Miriam Glick

11 New Column! Secret Restaurant Recipes Love a dish you tried in a restaurant? We’ll track down the recipe for you.

By Liora Stein

34 The Shidduch Saga By Mimmi Kirsch

38 The Narrow Bridge By Peri Berger

12 Food Currents

40 Daddy’s Girl

By Racheli Sofer

By Dina Neuman

42 Our Days

The rhythm of our lives |

4 From Scratch Come into Paula Shoyer’s kitchen and learn about the making of her new book. By Victoria Dwek Recipes by Paula Shoyer

14 Debt Diary

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By Victoria Dwek

11 Golden Nuggets

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2 Hello, Cooks

By Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky

Paula Shoyer is with you in the kitchen

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14 2 Girls on a Diet

By Basya Fruchter and Devoiry Fine

Dear Readers, I’m sitting at my computer in Ami’s offices and trying to write my

letter, but my mind is a million miles away, on an airplane flying over the Atlantic. My not-so-little boy has just left for yeshivah in Eretz Yisrael, and I’m full of apprehension at our separation. The airport from which I just returned was teeming with young men and their nervous mothers. Whenever our eyes met I could see that we were all thinking the same thing: how very hard it is to say goodbye and send our sons so far, far away. The past few days were a flurry of shopping and packing. They were a wonderful diversion from what I’ve known was coming for months: My son’s childhood is officially over. He has now flown the nest.

Editor in Chief Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

Editorial

Senior Editor Rechy Frankfurter Managing Editors Victoria Dwek Yossi Krausz

An interesting letter came across my desk today, from a woman who wondered whether the protagonist of “Matchmaker, Matchmaker,” one of the stories in our recent Sukkos Ami Collection, could have really been a “good” sem graduate if she did something so terrible as to defy her parents with her bad choice of a “shidduch.” The letter writer argued that the seeds of rebellion must have been there to begin with. In some ways I envied her naïveté—her assumption that “good kids” are safe from such situations. It was clear that she was trying to convince herself that she is immune: She repeatedly emphasized that “things don’t happen in a vacuum.” However, it was actually people with a similar mindset who caused the protagonist to finally share her tale.

Feature Editor Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum Coordinating Editor Toby Worch Copy Editors Basha Majerczyk Dina Schreiber Rabbi Yisroel Benedek

Art

Art Directors Alex Katalkin David Kniazuk

When writer Judy Jacobs approached me about writing her story, she told me that “Ricky” was very eager to share her experience, hoping that it would serve as some kind of warning. Watching so many young girls enter the workforce, she wanted to alert parents to the dangers that might await them just a few blocks from home, in places that were supposed to be the perfect environment to make some money while waiting for their bashert.

Food

Food Editors Victoria Dwek Leah Schapira

Advertising

Executive Account Manager Zack Blumenfeld

I find it ironic that it was “Ricky’s” parents’ attempt to keep her safe and close to home that inadvertently led to her situation. We all want to protect our children, but letting them go is sometimes necessary in order to allow them to grow emotionally and spiritually. “Ricky’s” parents wanted to shield her from the dangers of the world, but when a young lady is put into a situation where she is stagnating and cannot utilize her talents properly, it can have disastrous results. Boredom is a dangerous thing. As parents, our default setting is the desire to keep our children close by—or at least close enough that they don’t require a passport. But as “Ricky’s” parents discovered, keeping your child under your own roof doesn’t guarantee safety.

Executive Sales Directors Surie Katz Esther Friedman Europe Advertising 44 7891 297 866 Advertising Coordinator Malky Friedman Markowitz Distribution 917-202-3973 646-247-0262

Ami Magazine

Separation is painful. But sometimes not separating can be even worse. May our sons and daughters all reach their potential wherever on the globe that may be.

P: 718-534-8800 F: 718-484-7731 info@amimagazine.org Ami Magazine. Published by Mezoogmag LLC. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form without prior written permission from the publisher is prohibited. The publisher reserves the right to edit all articles for clarity, space, and editorial sensitivities. Ami Magazine assumes no responsibility for the content of advertisements in the publication, nor for the contents of books that are referred to or excerpted herein.

AMI•LIVING

OCTOBER 9, 2013

Rechy Frankfurter

rechy@amimagazine.org

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LETTERS

Cooking Help a Click Away Victoria to the rescue In reference to “Whisk”

Dear Editor: I sat at my computer and tried to write a really well-worded letter to try to explain how much I enjoy and use Whisk, but since words are failing me, I will just share this: Two days before Yom Tov, standing in a grocery store with a recipe from Whisk 2012 for a Flanken Roast with Green Beans, I could not find two of the six called-for ingredients. Desperate, and with nothing to lose, I sent an e-mail to Victoria and, three e-mails and ten minutes later, not only did she tell me where in Lakewood I could find my missing ingredients, but how to modify the recipe myself if I still couldn’t find them. The Flanken Roast was the highlight of our Yom Tov and will become a Yom Tov staple. I cannot thank you enough for the high standard that you hold yourselves to within Whisk. Yours avidly, Hindy Bertram

An Argument That Holds Water Maybe he was healed by being healthy In reference to “The Clean Bill,” Issue 136

Dear Editor: I enjoy Ami very much, and the Sukkos issue was especially entertaining. I just wanted to point out an observation I made while reading about the different healing aspects of water in the “Clean Bill” column. In the first article, about the man with the cancer in his bladder, where all else failed, a gallon of alkaline water and an alkaline vegetable diet was able to keep the cancer away and keep him healthy. A few pages later you speak about a doctor who discovered the healing powers of just drinking lots of water, with actual studies backing up some of his claims. Considering both these articles, maybe the fellow with cancer in his bladder recovered not because of the addition of alkaline water and alkaline food to his diet, but because of the addition of a gallon of water and more healthful food. He seemingly had changed two things in his life: the ph and the addition of healthful foods. But really he changed three things, since he also significantly increased the amount of water he drank. Just something to consider. Thank you and Chag Sameach! J.Y.R. Los Angeles, CA

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A Ticket to Inspiration Observing the changing demographics is incredible In reference to “Parshah,” Issue 135

Dear Editor: It’s funny how Rabbi Y. Y. Rubinstein saw an Ocean Parkway Jewish Center shul ticket; nothing is random! Dr. Akiva Norowitz and Rabbi Shlomo Gartenhaus have been at the forefront of outreach efforts at this very shul, a landmark in the Kensington area. Over 100 years old, and for many of those years a Conservative enclave, the OPJC, under the chairmanship of Mr. Allen Michaels, is now Orthodox, boasts a mechitzah, and is hosting more minyanim! During the past few years, I have been privileged to observe the awesome scene on Yom Kippur day. The boulevard of Ocean Parkway, between Ditmas Avenue and Avenue F, is thick with Jews of all ages—men, women, teens and children, thronging to OPJC to connect with their source, and their spirituality. At about 1,500 strong, bli ayin hara, the shul is dense with the urgency and holiness of the final hours of this holy day. Rabbi Shlomo Gartenhaus, of Cheder Am Yisroel (CHAY), delivers a stirring Neilah story and message in the main sanctuary… Many of the participants are Americans, most of Bucharian origin, and it is one of these who occupies “Pew S Seat 8” After all our nation has collectively gone through, klal Yisrael tips the scales in defense of the Jewish nation! With the rousing cry of “Shema Yisrael” and “Hashem Hu HaElokim,” we demonstrate that Am Yisrael Chai! L’shanah Haba’ah Bi’Yerushalayim! Hatzlachah! Mrs. Esther Gartenhaus

AMI MAGAZINE 1575 50th St., Brooklyn, NY 11219 Phone: (718) 534-8800 Fax: (718) 484-7731 letters@amimagazine.org

encore

Button Battery to Blame Reminding parents to keep their kids safe

A three-year-old girl living in California made headlines last month when she tragically passed away nearly two years after swallowing a button battery when she was just 10 months old. The dangerous tiny button battery, as described in Issue 113, not bigger than a nickel, caused irreparable damage to the infant’s trachea. Parents are reminded to steer clear of household devices and gadgets where these button batteries are not secured. In 2010, an estimated 3,000 other children in the US made the same tragic mistake.

Mazal vs. Seichel

Ami Collection story highlights this reality In reference to “Ami Collection”

Dear Editor: Your Succos edition was outstanding! The story “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” was riveting and proved a well-known adage: Men darf mehr mazal vi seichel—We need more mazal than seichel. With the impetuousness of youthful folly, this young girl would have thrown her life away despite the pleadings of her parents. Only in hindsight does she regret to realize that it’s only the mazal that the Dor Yeshorim test showed an incompatibility. Unfortunately I know someone who did not have that mazal. She married someone she met in an office and has a miserable life with him, and she has only herself to blame. Her parents and friends begged her to come to her senses, but unfortunately she did not. R.S. Brooklyn, NY

“Thumbs Up” for Bytes It worked for us, too

In reference to “Letters,” Issue 135

Dear Editor: I would like to comment on the letter in issue 135 about the excellent “Bytes” tip: using nail polish for removing warts. We put nail polish on a wart, and in ten days it was gone. Thanks for your amazing publication. It’s the only one we buy now. Hatzlachah rabbah. Teilchu Mei’chayil el chayil! Anonymous

THE

REBBETZIN SPIRITUALITY AND THE MUNDANE

SPEAKS

YOU DON’T HAVE TO LIVE UP TO SOME IDEALIZED STANDARD By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

achel called me from out of town to share her distress about an issue I’ve heard time and again voiced by women.

The gist of her frustration was that Yom Tov had come and gone and she had found her experience of it wanting, or as she put it, “quite pathetic.” Upon elaboration, she described the bulk of her involvement as entailing food preparation, cleaning, taking care of children, and all the other mundane activities that created an environment in which her husband and family might enjoy Yom Tov. The characterization of the Sukkos holiday as “zman simchaseinu,” the time of our rejoicing, had all but eluded her. Upon reflection, she considered herself a failure for not having tuned into the spirituality of so lofty a season. I assured her that such was not the case. While it is certainly desirable and commendable to plug into the kavanos— the intention and orientations of the heart in the performance of mitzvos—the bottom line is that our core obligation is discharged by our behavior, in accordance with the dictum, “Hamaaseh hu ha’ikar— the deed is the main thing.” Spiritual and emotional spontaneity and inspiration are of secondary importance. Moreover, they are only valid when they are a product of actual deed. “Be a Jew at heart” was the misguided philosophy of many heterodox movements that dispensed with the yoke of mitzvos and insisted that feelings and heartfelt emotions were all that mattered. In a compelling essay, a contemporary Jewish thinker points out that the Torah designates joy for Sukkos and Simchas

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Torah, and conversely, sadness and mourning for Tishah B’Av, regardless of one’s mood. Moreover, in spite of the seemingly polar differences between the two, there is a profound connection, as eliciting both of these emotions draws upon the same inner strength: “The ability to rejoice on a preassigned day derives from a self-discipline that is an integral part of the religious life and essential characteristic of the Torah Jew. One needs inner strength to perform the mitzvos...in various situations and states of mind.” Such strength derives from the commitment to assume our responsibilities with “ol malchus shamayim,” the acceptance of the yoke of Heaven. I suggested to Rachel that creating a context of Yom Tov for her family was her role and that navigating that responsibility was a huge accomplishment, because at the end of the day, it is the deed that is mandated and indispensable. I shared with her that what worked for me was taking an extra moment before reciting a brachah, to think about what I am grateful and thankful for. Additionally, I found that carving out a few minutes for a walk around the block was helpful to center myself and gain perspective. Indeed, the highlight of my hectic Yom Tov schedule was appreciating the blessing of children and grandchildren—fleeting as those moments were, given the overwhelming chaos. The “icing on the cake” was when Sarah, my three-year-old granddaughter from Yerushalayim, grabbed my hand away from another grandchild’s and exclaimed possessively, “Mein Bubby!” Someone loves me. Does it get any better than that? The above author posits that it is not inspiration, however desirable, that plays the greatest role in the arts, philosophy, or religious thinking and experience. Rather,

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achievement is a combination of many factors, most prominent among them the nitty-gritty of hard work. The Chofetz Chaim gave a parable of a poor, somewhat hapless fellow whose only means of livelihood was the hot rolls his wife baked for him to sell in the town square. On his first day on the job, a group of vandals helped themselves to some of his rolls and upset the cart. The remaining rolls went flying everywhere. Heartbroken, the fellow went home and told his wife his sad story. She looked at him and commented, disdainfully, “If everyone was grabbing rolls, couldn’t you at least have grabbed one for yourself ”? The Chofetz Chaim’s point was that if the yetzer hara, the lesser part of ourselves, upsets our cart and deprives us of being “present” and enjoying the fruits of our labors, grabbing a moment here and there can be very valuable. It may be the best we can do under given circumstances—and that too is okay. Rachel, and all of us who find ourselves in the same boat, can instead focus on what we did do right, rather than beating ourselves up for failing to attain some idealized standard. As Jewish women, we are members of Hashem’s faithful legion. When all is said and done, we work hard and do our best to fulfill His will.  Rebbetzin Feige Twerski is the mother of 11 children and many grandchildren, whose number she refuses to divulge. Alongside her husband, Rabbi Michel Twerski, she serves as Rebbetzin to her community in Milwaukee, and counsels people all over the globe. The Rebbetzin is a popular lecturer, speaking on a wide variety of topics to audiences in America and overseas. She is the author of Ask Rebbetzin Feige and, more recently, of Rebbetzin Feige Responds.

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PARSHAS LECH LECHA // By Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky

A TZADDIK BY ANY OTHER NAME

he Torah tells us that Terach begat Avram, Nachor and Haran, and that Avram married Sarai. “And Terach took Avram his son, and Lot the son of Haran, his son’s son, and Sarai his daughter-inlaw, his son Avram’s wife; and they went forth with them from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan; and they came unto Charan, and dwelt there” (Bereishis 11:31). Indeed, the Torah introduces Avraham Avinu by discussing his birth, marriage and travels. Even in this week’s parsha we find no descriptive accolades. The Torah does not call him a tzaddik (righteous); it does not describe him as a genius, a maverick or a pioneer. It just tells stories—many stories. Lech Lecha begins: “And Hashem said unto Avram: ‘Go out of your country, and from your kindred, and from your father’s house, unto the land that I will show you” (Bereishis 12:1). The next two and a half Torah portions are filled with many experiences and adventures of Avraham. Each story embodies self-sacrifice, faith, kindness, bravery and the amazing character traits that are a model for all his descendants. Yet, the Torah never introduces him as a tzaddik. It does not introduce him with a title. Why not? Noach, in the first few verses of his emergence is highly praised: “Noach found grace in the eyes of Hashem” (Bereishis 6:8). In the next verse, Noach is called a “tzaddik, perfect in his generations” (ibid., v. 9). Why is Noach introduced with honorable titles while Avram only gets stories? A number of years ago, I attempted to raise some tzedakah from an unaffiliated Jew whom I did not know. In fact, my only reason to call him was the ostensibly Jewish name boldly painted on the large sign that described his

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mammoth factory. I assumed he was proud of his heritage as he did not invent a name for his manufacturing company, and did not rename it McGillicuddy’s Tool Factory either. Thus I called him with my usual pareve pitch. “Hello, Mr. Finkelstein, this is Mordechai Kamenetzky and I’d like to meet you about helping perpetuate our Jewish heritage.” In my mind it was as pareve as an introduction could get, couching my initial request for a meeting with a plea for Jewish continuity. But the fellow must have been down that road before. He did not say, “I’m busy.” Instead he asked one simple question. And he asked it loudly and angrily: “Are you Orthodox?” I was stunned. I looked at the receiver and thought about the question for about 30 seconds. And those 30 seconds helped me formulate an answer that I still believe today. “Well,” he barked. “I asked you a question. Are you Orthodox?” “You know what,” I said. “I really have no idea what I am!” I paused. “But I’ll tell you what. I have a book. I try to follow this book. In the book there are big lettered instructions and on its sides there are small letter instructions. I try to follow the instructions. Sometimes, I succeed. Sometimes I fail. I don’t know what I am; I just know what I do or, at least, try to do. So, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come down to our yeshivah, follow me around and then you can call me any name you like.” He must have liked the answer, because he did come and we became good friends. There is a great difference between Noach and Avraham. Noach, as hard as he worked, did not impart his greatness to others, and thus the story of Noach is

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very self-contained. Of course, he must have fed the animals on the ark and dealt with the wood suppliers; however, we really do not see him speaking or interacting with anyone. There are no words, “Vayomer Noach—And Noach said.” Thus the Torah had to label him. The Torah had to tell us that he was a tzaddik. Avraham, however, did not need a label. Just follow him around. Travel with him to a land that only G-d knows. Leave that land during a famine. Accompany him when he fights for the life of his nephew. Share his faith as he and his wife wait decades for children. Walk up Mount Moriah as he unflinchingly responds to Hashem’s request, “Take now thy son, your only son, whom you love, and offer him for an olah” (Bereishis 22:2). Then you will call him the name he eventually earns for eternity—Avraham Avinu, Our Father Abraham. In Talmud Yerushalmi, Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel states: We do not make monuments for the righteous; their words are their memories. Perhaps there is a lesson. If you can learn from actions, one need not be defined by titles. Perhaps the Torah need not bestow titles if it describes actions. The actions and the stories are the greatest titles that our Patriarchs have. n Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky is the Rosh Yeshivah of Yeshiva Toras Chaim at South Shore and the author of the Parsha Parable series.

GOLDEN NUGGETS // By Basha Majerczyk

THE UNDELIVERED LETTER

here was once a chasid of Rabbi Mordechai of Chernobyl who fell ill. When he heard that his Rebbe was in town to collect funds (It was said that the money went for the support of “hidden tzaddikim”), he sent a messenger asking the Rebbe to visit and promising to give him a donation. In the course of the visit, Rabbi Mordechai informed the man that unfortunately, it was not destined for him to recover. No sooner had the Rebbe left the premises than the sick man sent for him again. This time, he promised to donate half of his worldly goods if, after his death, the Rebbe would lead him directly to Gan Eden without any delay. The Rebbe agreed, but stipulated that the money and valuables be transferred to him immediately. This was done, and the Rebbe remained with the sick man until he passed away. Upon the man’s death, the Rebbe took out a piece of paper and wrote a letter to his father, Rabbi Nachum of Chernobyl, who was already in the World of Truth. He instructed the burial society to place it in the grave with the niftar and they complied. A few days later, on Shabbos, Rabbi Mordechai was about to wash his hands before making “Hamotzi” when he looked down and saw that they had turned black. Not knowing the reason, he immediately ascended to the higher realms to find out what was going on. Indeed, he discovered that there was a terrible accusation against him in Heaven: that he had taken the money of the niftar but had failed to bring him to Gan Eden as promised. In fact, this is what had happened: When the niftar had suddenly found himself in the next world, he was

He was accused of taking the money, but failing to deliver on his promise. protected by Rabbi Mordechai’s letter and none of the evil spirits could get at him. Wishing to deliver the letter, he asked some other souls where he might find Rabbi Nachum, and they informed him that a certain tzaddik had just passed away and the entire celestial retinue was rushing off to greet him; no doubt Rabbi Nachum would be among the crowd, and they would point him out. And so, the niftar had followed all the other souls until he located Rabbi Nachum and handed him the letter. Distracted by the procession, however, Rabbi Nachum had continued on his way rather than read it immediately. Not having the presence of mind to run after him, the niftar soon found himself standing there alone—without the letter! At once he was attacked by the troublesome angels, causing him great suffering. At that moment he had

cried out bitterly, “This isn’t fair! What happened to all the money I gave as a pidyon nefesh!?” An accusation was thus created against Rabbi Mordechai and his hands had turned black. Still in the celestial realms, Rabbi Mordechai had sought out his father to complain. “What did you do to me?” he accused him. “I wrote you a letter—I was counting on you! Of course, I could have brought him to Gan Eden, but I was trying to make things a little easier for myself. I wish you would have taken him under your wing.” Father and son then went in search of the niftar, and found him in a heap of rubbish. They washed him off and accompanied him to Gan Eden. Rabbi Mordechai’s soul then descended back into this world; his hands resumed their normal color and he related what had just happened to those present. n

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OCTOBER 9, 2013

AMI•LIVING

BYTES

// Morsels of Wisdom, Wit and Practical Advice By Miriam Glick

The secret to changing your mood

IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT SHOW SOME TEETH

HEAD OUTDOORS

Don’t force that smile; fake smiles could actually ruin your mood. Think happy thoughts, and then smile! You’ll be surprised how happy you feel.

Aaaah! Go out and breathe the fresh air. “Nature is fuel for the soul,” says Richard Ryan, PhD. “Often when we feel depleted we reach for a cup of coffee, but research suggests that a better way to get energized is to connect with nature.”

GIVE A LITTLE Surprisingly enough, it’s not the takers that are happy. Givers experience “the helper’s high.” “This is probably a literal ‘high,’ similar to a drug-induced high,” writes Christine L. Cater, PhD. “The act of making a financial donation triggers the reward center in our brains that is responsible for dopamine-mediated euphoria.”

CONNECT The real way to people is not through gadgets. Go out and spend time with people. This will uplift your mood.

CAREFUL WITH THE CROWD Hang out with the people who smile. Smiling is contagious, but so is grouching

USING AND RETURNING

Enough is enough with one-time users Some people have found a convenient (albeit unkosher) way of affording a beautiful dress for a one-time occasion. Simply go to a store, pick the dress of your dreams, be extra careful when you wear it, then return it promptly the next day for a full refund. Need a certain pocketbook to match the outfit? Buy it, use it, return it. How about shoes? Tape the bottom of the shoes well, and then return the next day, after a full night of use. I kid you not—people are actually doing these things. The department store Bloomingdale’s has decided they’ve had enough. They are now placing prominent tags on places that are impossible to hide. Any item priced $150 or more gets a prominent B-tag on it. Unless you want to walk around with a tag dangling all night, you are better off buying the outfit. Or, you can always go to a gemach instead.

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and frowning.

ROLL WITH THE PUNCHES Life is not always a bowl of cherries. But try to get over the failures fast.

THINK PINK Focus on the good. Be positive. Look at the bright side of things. Be grateful. Life is full of great things. You just have to focus on it.

TRY, AND TRY AGAIN If all else fails and you are still grumpy, try and try again. Just trying to be happy can actually make you happy! So don’t give up! Happiness is just around the corner, if you keep looking for it.

PUTTER

AROUND

the

HOUSE

BUBBY’S BROKE Single, old and poor

Single older women don’t seem to be handling their finances too well. A new report revealed that a whopping 18.9 percent of women over 65 are living below the federal threshold of $11,011 for single people. In one year there was an 18-percent increase of women living on less than $5,500 a year! Katherine Gallagher Robbins, a senior policy analyst at the National Women’s Law Center, doesn’t really have any explanation as to why the poverty increased so much. She guesses that perhaps cuts in social security might be one of the causes of the problem. But she stresses that it is only “pure hypothesizing.” Interestingly enough, it seems that the single men are not having this problem. Hmm... Maybe the men could teach the women a thing or two about finances.

FRIDGE FRESHNESS How to get your fridge to smell like one

HIGH AND MIGHTY

Full wallets lead to full heads Old and true fact: Wealthy people tend to be haughty people. We know it’s true, but now we even have research to back it up. Paul K. Piff of the University of California did a series of studies to prove the link between the upper class and narcissism. “Americans may be more narcissistic now than ever, but narcissism is not evenly distributed across social strata,” Piff wrote. “Higher social class is associated with increased entitlement and narcissism.” He first had people fill out a questionnaire that answered questions of entitlement and had the people place themselves on a continuum measuring where they felt they belonged in society. The rich people felt an extreme sense of entitlement and placed themselves high on the ladder. He conducted a few other similar studies and found that they all led to the same conclusion: Wealth breeds narcissism. “Bringing emerging social class theory to bear on the issue of historical trends in narcissistic personality, my research reveals that recent rises in narcissism may be most pronounced among upperclass individuals and less accelerated, if increasing at all, among lowerclass individuals,” Piff concluded. Looks like the rich can use a lesson in humility. 5 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 4

Strong odors coming out of your fridge? Try removing the smells with some food. VINEGAR Wash the walls with equal parts of vinegar and water. LEMON Wipe the walls with some lemon juice. Or place slices of lemon in the fridge. Don’t forget to remove before they go bad. BREAD Place slices of bread around the fridge. They will absorb the smell. BAKING SODA Keep a box of baking soda open in the fridge. FRESH COFFEE GROUNDS Put some coffee on a cookie sheet and place in the fridge.

OCTOBER 9, 2013

AMI•LIVING

true s ’ e l p ou ir One c y of the ver stor to reco ial ggle stru om financ fr ter disas tein

aS r o i L By

Diary

Recap: Liora and Tzvi consult a therapist to help confront their difficulty discussing their growing money crisis. Realizing they have different fears and priorities, they leave the office without any clear spending cuts, but a little friendlier to each other.

Part 8: Finally Facing the Facts I’m sitting at the dining room table, poring over a history textbook. It’s 10:59 p.m. and my hand is tired from taking notes. I’ve gone back to school—as a teacher. Over Yom Tov, the 10th and 11th grade history teacher decided to stay home full-time with her newborn. My coffee buddy recommended me for the job. I ended up taking over three classes a day. The pay is $20 an hour and I’m thrilled, hoping a regular paycheck will help slow the bleeding of our budget gap. But it’s hard work reviewing the French Revolution after putting my kids to bed. “How about going over the spreadsheet tonight?” Tzvi asks, sitting in the wobbly wooden chair next to mine. I hold my head in my hands. Tonight. I’m afraid to face the numbers after Yom Tov. I just kept swiping plastic to pay for groceries, tights for the girls, a suit jacket for our son, more groceries, liquor for the last days, and so much plastic flatware. (I had yet to mention the school shoes fiasco).

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Tzvi says our cash is dwindling. “Our savings account is down to $3,600.” He shows me, on the glowing laptop screen, columns of tiny black numbers: gas, insurance, mortgage, restaurants and “other.” At first I didn’t understand Tzvi’s categories. Why did he lump all purchases at the Judaica store as other? I remembered buying required sefarim for school, which I would have listed under educational expenses. I didn’t see a clothing or dry cleaning allowance, or anything for gifts. I was so nervous that I tapped my foot audibly on the wood floor. I’d bought uniforms instead of using the school’s gemach. Seeing the actual payments and interest on our growing debt—we’re approaching $50,000 on our credit cards—made me wish I’d pushed my pride aside to save. Also, I hate showing up to simchos empty-handed, but Tzvi hadn’t included a gift column. Things I saw as necessities were excluded from his list. Wait until Tzvi sees how the numbers have gone up. I made meatballs for the last days of Yom Tov, in an effort to be frugal, but now it seems irrelevant. In order to escape this financial mess, I need to erase

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any lingering material desires. And yet I’ll need more clothes and makeup for work. And the kids keep growing, baruch Hashem. Pride kept me from admitting our emergency. I promised prizes for good behavior. Even after the shoe incident, I still bought bows to match the dresses my mother sent for Yom Tov. Now my fingers are rapping the table. “Can you please stop making so much noise?” Tzvi asks. He turns toward me, squinting his blue eyes. “Sorry.” I wonder if Tzvi knows the apology is not just for the tapping. It’s for every impulse purchase,

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misjudgment, and retail therapy moment I’ve had in the past decade. He scrolls down to show me more numbers: monthly credit card payments, accruing interest, therapy, tutoring, and restaurants. My needs can disappear, I think, as the numbers blur on the screen. “We could sell the car?” I venture, as we surf through the unidentifiable ATM withdrawals. Tzvi shakes his head no and then says, “We’d have to fix the dents.” “True.” As I stand up, the chair scratches the wood 5 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 4

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Diary floor. I’m trying to get a closer look. “Tutoring.” Tzvi sounds like he’s hit the jackpot. “Let’s cut down on that.” He types his goal into Excel. “Not that, Tzvi,” I say, my voice rising. “It’s helped so much.” My eyes search the room. I don’t want to have to explain how embarrassing it is that I can’t understand my kids’ Hebrew homework, or how much it’s boosted their confidence (and mine) to have advice from someone who knows how the school system works. “It’s a baal teshuvah tax,” Tzvi jokes. I take a sip of my decaf. We will get through this. “It stays,” I repeat in a forced whisper. “I will not jeopardize my children’s future over money.” My jaw hurts. “Okay then, no more therapy,” Tzvi suggests. He stretches his right arm behind his back, resting it on the back of his neck, creating a triangle with his elbow that almost knocks over the trinkets on the chest behind him. Bull in a china shop, I think loudly. “Okay, fine,” I agree quickly, in a soft voice. Here is my own husband cutting up our life together, eradicating the life preserver that’s kept us afloat thus far. “We’ll manage.” My parents hadn’t gone to therapy; they didn’t consult about each and every issue I brought home. If they ever discussed their points of departure, I’d be shocked. Mostly, my dad retreated into his study to read, or started fixing things around the house, when there was trouble brewing. Mom went out and came back with a manicure, called her sister or busied herself with work. I held in my stomach, sitting up straight. Lack of money for therapy was a chance to work on my middos, exercise self-control and prove that we didn’t need the talking cure anymore. We were going to handle this challenge on our own. “Are we going to lose the house?” I ask, cracking my knuckles. I am afraid. It has taken so much effort to establish our family and to find friends. I suddenly appreciate my PTA participation and the neighbor who always lends me the ingredients I’ve forgotten at

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the store. I moved a lot when I was little; I felt lost. “I really hope we don’t,” Tzvi explains. “I applied to refinance the mortgage.” He tips the chair forward again, planting his feet on the ground. “But we are running out of credit.” “My job will add,” I remind my husband, proud. “How much would a new mortgage save us?” “About $200 a month,” Tzvi wiped his sweaty forehead with his wide palm. “Not as much as I had hoped.” As Tzvi went to close the laptop, his fingers hit the

“Okay, fine,” I agree quickly, in a soft voice. Here is my own husband cutting up our life together, eradicating the life preserver that’s kept us afloat thus far. “We’ll manage.” music app. Yosef Karduner crooned “Min Hameitzar Karasi Kah,” to the strum of his guitar. I heard a flute in the background. “From the narrow straits I called to You,” the gravelly voice plays over the speakers. “It’s too loud!” Tzvi fumbles for the volume key, finally turning down the music. “I like it. Tehillim,” I say back. “But I think we’re in over our heads. We need advice” “You mean a financial planner?” Tzvi leans back in his chair. I want to put my head on the table and give up. “There is some good news, Liora.” “Really?” I ask. n To be continued...

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TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

The Great Yeshiva Switch My son’s friend was taking a

bold step without his parents’ knowledge. Was I obligated to tell them?

By Chaya Gross

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“Ma, what would you do if you found out I was going to a different yeshivah from the one Tatty registered me in?” my son Yitzy asked me, as I grabbed yet another shirt from the pile of ironing. He was leaving for Eretz Yisrael in a few days, his very first zman away from home, and I was helping him to get ready. “What?” I asked, confused. I put down the iron. “What on earth are you talking about?” “Suppose you found out after I left that I never went to the yeshivah you sent me to, and that I had switched yeshivos on my own?” he explained. “I’m not really sure how I would react,” I replied. “Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you just tell us you’re not happy with the yeshivah we chose for you?” “I don’t know. Maybe if I was scared to say something…” “Honestly, I don’t know what I would do. But why are you asking me?”

“Because that’s exactly what my friend Yossi Neuhaus is doing,” he informed me. “He wasn’t happy with his father’s choice so he did his own research and applied to the yeshivah he liked the best. It’s a huge secret,” he added quickly. “I think I’m the only person he confided in. Please don’t tell anyone.” “Wow,” I sputtered, not sure what to say. “That’s a big decision for a boy his age.” “Ma, we’re both 19, you know.” “Of course, but still... What didn’t he like about the yeshivah his father wanted him to attend?” I was curious. “It was too rigid for him. Yossi felt he wouldn’t really fit in and reach his full potential. But his father was insistent that he go there; that’s where he learned years ago as a bachur. I don’t think he would have even considered sending him to Eretz Yisrael if not for that yeshivah,” he went on. “Wow!” I repeated myself. “But please, Ma, do not tell a soul,” he emphasized again. “I just had to get it off my chest. If Yossi finds out that I told someone he’s going to be fuming. And don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “I’m still going to the same yeshivah. No surprises from me.” He then changed the subject. Later that evening I posed the same question to my husband that Yitzy had asked me. “What would your reaction be if you found out that Yitzy switched yeshivos in Eretz Yisrael?” My husband also didn’t understand what I meant, so I elaborated. He stroked his beard and looked thoughtful. “I don’t think I would mind the actual switch, especially if it’s a good yeshivah. But it would bother me that my son wasn’t being open with me. Why are you asking? Is Yitzy unhappy with his yeshivah?” “No, he’s really looking forward to going there,” I was quick to reassure him. I then repeated the conversation I’d had with Yitzy earlier that afternoon. “Do you think we’re obligated to tell Yossi Neuhaus’s parents?” I asked. “I would want someone to tell me if it were my son.” “Absolutely not!” my husband replied adamantly. “First of all, it would destroy your son’s trust in you. Didn’t you promise him you wouldn’t repeat it?” “Yes, but—”

“And secondly, we don’t know Rabbi Neuhaus that well. He might be sort of a non-negotiating type of father who is not going to be amused when he hears about this. His son must have been pretty desperate to switch yeshivos in an underhanded way. You never know what the repercussions might be if you spill the beans.” “I hope you’re right,” I replied. “But I’m still not sure that we should just sit on this information.” “You’re forgetting that they aren’t babies anymore. They’re 19 years old. Boys that age are capable of making their own decisions. I think we should stay out of it. Just make believe you never heard the story,” he added when he saw my uncertain expression. I trusted my husband’s judgment, but it still weighed heavily on my mind for the next few days. I kept thinking about

a year.” She gave a little sniff. “I’m going to miss him so much. But at least I know he’s going to a good place. My husband went to the same yeshivah as a bachur. He always says it was a wonderful experience. In fact, I don’t think my husband would have agreed to send him to Eretz Yisrael if not for that yeshivah. He really prefers his children to be closer to home.” I nodded mutely, unsure of how to reply. There was a big knot in my stomach. Should I tell her? I stood there like a deer caught in the headlights. “Umm, that’s so nice,” I stammered. “I’d love to chat with you more, but I’d better catch up with my husband and son.” I fled before I could say anything else, leaving a very bewildered Mrs. Neuhaus behind. We bid our son goodbye amidst copious tears (only mine) and lots of hugs. It’s not easy sending a child away, for whatever reason.

There was a big knot in my stomach. I stood there like a deer caught in the headlights. how I would feel if my son did that to me. Although in theory I knew that Yitzy was an adult, he was still my baby. I guess it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that your child is no longer a little kid. I was still thinking about it as we drove to the airport. “All ready, Yitz?” I asked, as I smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied. “Other than a couple of butterflies in my stomach, I think I’m doing okay.” “You’ll do great!” my husband said. “I have full faith in you, son.” “Remember: any problems, just give us a ring. We’re only a phone call away. Don’t be afraid to tell us anything,” I practically begged him. Before we knew it we had arrived at the airport. My husband and son lugged the suitcases out the trunk and went to check them in. I walked slowly behind them. “Hello, Mrs. Green,” a voice greeted me from behind. I turned around. “Mrs. Neuhaus!” I sputtered. “What a nice surprise meeting you here.” “Well, my son is also leaving today. I can’t believe he’s actually going away for

For the next few months I couldn’t stop wondering about Yitzy’s friend, Yossi. But I was afraid to broach the topic and waited for my son to bring it up. One day, though, I couldn’t contain my curiosity anymore and asked him outright what had happened. “Oh, Yitzy? I must have forgotten to tell you,” he said. “It must have slipped my mind. One day he just blurted it out to his father. At first I think his father was very upset but he got over it. I think he spoke to some rav who reassured him it was okay. In fact, I think their relationship improved a little,” he continued in a serious tone. “Maybe it’s just the distance, or else his father realized how awful it was that his son was so intimidated by him. I’m not really sure. But at least the story had a good ending. Anyway, gotta’ go, Ma. Talk to you later.” I slowly hung up the phone and gave a big sigh of relief. Boy, was I glad I hadn’t been the one to tell them!  To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

CAN PREGNANCY

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While we all know that “being in a family way” can cause a host of annoying symptoms—morning sickness, fatigue, an achy back and varicose veins, to name just a few— research indicates that it can also significantly relieve many serious medical conditions. BY RACHELI SOFER 5 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 4

OCTOBER 9, 2013

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

SHAINA’S STORY:

any years ago, not long after we moved to London from Manchester, we welcomed our seventh child into the world, a beautiful baby boy. He was only three months old when, one morning, my oldest daughter, who was ten at the time, woke me up with her hysterical cries: “Mommy, something’s wrong with the baby!” My husband jumped out of bed and raced to the crib, where he found the baby limp and unresponsive. He frantically started artificial respiration but it was too late. Our precious son had passed away, a tragic victim of what was then referred to as cot death. I was absolutely devastated. I couldn’t bring myself to sit shivah in the living room with the rest of my family and I hid upstairs in my bedroom. I wasn’t interested in seeing anyone, but a very close friend of mine came upstairs to try to offer me some comfort. “We’re going to New York to visit the Lubavitcher Rebbe,” she told me, and offered to relay a message to the Rebbe on my behalf. It occurred to me then that I wanted to go see the Rebbe personally; I hoped he would be able to give me some desperately needed encouragement so that I could somehow carry on. “I want to take my family to see the Rebbe on Yud Shevat [the previous Rebbe’s yahrtzeit],” I told her. “Please ask the Rebbe for a brachah for me and my family to visit him then.” Another of my friends ventured upstairs to my bedroom to be menachem avel; she too had lost a child. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t fathom how she had managed to move on, and I could not picture myself ever doing so. She really comforted me, and somehow I mustered the strength to join my family in the living room for the remainder of the shivah. My husband had our mezuzos and his tefillin checked immediately after the week was up. Eerily, the word “hashevi’i” (“the seventh”) was missing from one of the parshiyos. When my friend returned from New York she had a message for us from the Rebbe: The Rebbe felt that we should schedule our trip for Purim instead of Yud Shevat. “Yud Shevat is a yahrtzeit, a serious time,” he had told her. “She should rather come for Purim, as it’s a happy occasion.” My husband then communicated with the Rebbe’s secretariat to inquire of him who should accompany me, since tickets to New York for a family of eight were very expensive. “As your wife wishes,” the Rebbe responded. It didn’t take long for me to decide. During the week of shivah my husband had gone to shul on Shabbos and received an aliyah containing the words “Mi va’mi haholchim—Precisely who is going?”). I turned to my husband and said, “We’re all going!” We booked our tickets, and a few weeks later packed up the kids and flew across the Atlantic to spend Purim in New York. During our private audience, the Rebbe first spoke to each of our children individually. After they had left the room and were

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out of earshot, the Rebbe addressed me and my husband. We had confided in the Rebbe that we were worried about the effect our baby’s death might have on his siblings. “Children are resilient,” the Rebbe said. “It’s up to you. If you have a negative reaction, the children will react negatively. The halachah is that a year of aveilus follows only the death of parents. Your reaction has to be favorable. If you have a negative reaction it will be absorbed by your children.” The Rebbe then inexplicably added, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t have another child right away.” Before taking our leave, we asked one more question. I had wanted to extend our stay in New York so I could attend my cousin’s wedding the following Tuesday, and sought the Rebbe’s blessing, but the Rebbe advised us to return home that Sunday as planned. “It’s an auspicious day,” the Rebbe said. My husband and I couldn’t understand the Rebbe’s instructions. Wasn’t Tuesday the day that was “ki tov”? The truth was that for several weeks I hadn’t been feeling well. I was often so weak that I needed help getting up the stairs. I wasn’t functioning properly. But as the mother of six children I couldn’t afford to focus on my symptoms. Besides, I was convinced that they were all psychosomatic. When I got back to London, however, I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I was beyond being able to cope. I was vomiting all the time and couldn’t get out of bed. When I went to the doctor, I was shocked to be diagnosed with sarcoidosis. Sarcoidosis is a systemic disease that can affect any organ of the body. Collections of tiny inflammatory cells can form in the lymph nodes, eyes and skin. While it commonly causes fatigue, lack of energy, weight loss, aches and pains, it also frequently affects the lungs, as a chest X-ray confirmed was definitely the case with me. I also had skin lesions all over my body. We realized that if we had extended our stay in New York till the following Tuesday, we wouldn’t have been able to travel home for ages! I was bedridden for months, but my doctor decided to take a wait-and-see approach. I was constantly coming in for blood work and X-rays to monitor my symptoms, but there wasn’t much else that the medical establishment could do for me. I was still feeling awful. My doctor warned me that a pregnancy would be dangerous. Not only would I be unable to carry a pregnancy to term, he cautioned, but it could also kill me. While sarcoidosis itself isn’t necessarily dangerous to a mother or her unborn baby, if the disease has caused significant organ damage, especially to the heart or lungs, it can be hazardous to both. The Rebbe often advised people to get a second opinion, so I went to a different doctor who ran various tests. He also wanted

Winter 2013/2014

to order an X-ray—which I had to refuse, as I suspected that I was pregnant. So he ordered a blood test to see if I was, and sent us home. Our phone rang several times that Shabbos; on Monday a letter arrived in the mail. “Congratulations!” it said. My suspicions were confirmed—I was expecting. When we went back to this doctor, he wasn’t alarmed at all. In fact, he told me that my illness might get cured! While one of the treatments for sarcoidosis involves giving the patient steroids, doctors don’t rush to use them because of their side effects, and they’re often administered as a last resort. However, during pregnancy the body naturally produces a substance called corticosteroids, and he was convinced that these hormones could rid me of the disease. I can honestly say that I wasn’t worried at all during the pregnancy. Thank G-d, everything went smoothly. I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy whom we named Yisrael Raphael. After the baby was born I went back for a chest X-ray. Incredibly, it showed that my lungs were clear. The pregnancy had cured the illness—and it never returned. Baruch Hashem, our family eventually grew to include six more children. Yisrael is now 40 years old and my sarcoidosis is gone.

Worth Wheeling

Often during my own pregnancy experiences, it struck me that no matter how far science has come, there is much about pregnancy and birth that remains a mystery. Yes, doctors are now able to perform incredible 3-D ultrasounds and sophisticated intrauterine surgeries, but there is still a great deal that we don’t know. Take, for example, the fact that no matter how frustrated or anxious an expectant mother might be as she inches closer to—or even beyond—her due date, scientists still can’t predict exactly when she will welcome her bundle of joy into the world. Spring gave way to summer and eventually autumn leaves started to fall, and all the while I reveled in the absence of my seasonal allergies whenever I was expecting. What normally feels like a very lengthy spring-through-fall season passes by quickly, my Costco-supply of Claritin untouched, my eyes remarkably dry, my nose itch-free! It didn’t matter if I was having a hard time sleeping or if my fingers were swollen; I was breathing easy— allergy free. There are many theories as to why pregnancy affects certain conditions, for the better in some cases and for the worse in others. About 75 percent of all instances of autoimmune diseases, like multiple sclerosis and rheumatoid arthritis, occur in women, most frequently during the childbearing years. Scientists therefore postulate that hormones might play a role in many of these

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

Q&A WITH HOWARD R. PETTY, PHD professor and researcher on cancer and inflammation at the University of Michigan How did you become interested in the remission of autoimmune diseases during pregnancy? People refer to pregnancy as “an experiment in nature.” Studying it is a great way to understand immune disorders, because even though there are antigens present in the fetus that come from the father, the mother doesn’t reject it as a foreign body. This is something natural. My group has been working on research that could hopefully lead us to develop a drug that would mimic the immunological effect of pregnancy. Wouldn’t it be great if patients could just take a pill one day to put them in remission? From an immunology standpoint, pregnancy is a treasure trove for potential discoveries. My interest began after I learned that neonates don’t produce cytokines, which are proteins that regulate immunity. What kinds of conditions are alleviated by pregnancy? There are at least 15 diseases that go into remission during pregnancy, such as eye diseases like uvitis. Multiple sclerosis has the most literature describing this phenomenon. There was a study in the New England Journal of Medicine about 900 MS patients who went into remission while they were pregnant. Why does this happen? That’s the $64,000 question! There are many theories being explored. One current theory is that trophoblasts, the cells that distinguish the fetus from the mother, produce factors that tell the mother’s immune cells how to behave. My own theory is that pregnancy alters the calcium signals in the leukocytes (white blood cells) so they don’t attack. The bottom line is that we don’t really understand it. So it isn’t hormonal? Hormones contribute but aren’t the complete explanation. There’s a branch of the National Institutes of Health currently focusing on this. Has anyone been able to replicate the effects of pregnancy on someone who isn’t pregnant? No one has been able to fool the immune system. It’s difficult to make a pregnant woman in a petri dish! There is also a lack of funding for research. Why are only some diseases put into remission during pregnancy? Some diseases are exacerbated by pregnancy and others are put into remission. It might depend on which cells activate which lymphocytes. Pregnancy might affect one type more than another. Are some of the remissions permanent? No. No one has been permanently healed. The disease snaps right back after pregnancy. While the cells are somehow told to behave in the pregnant woman’s body, we unfortunately don’t speak that language. The research is still in its infancy.

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diseases, causing a sudden improvement on one end of the spectrum and flare-ups at the other. This might also explain why multiple sclerosis symptoms tend to be less aggressive in women than in men. Another autoimmune disorder, Crohn’s disease, a form of inflammatory bowel disease, can sometimes get better during pregnancy—if it doesn’t get worse, which can also occur. Doctors believe that Crohn’s patients who find that they enjoy a reprieve from symptoms during pregnancy have the hormone relaxin to thank. But while researchers formerly blamed fluctuating hormones for pregnancyinduced changes in the body, scientists are now suggesting they may constitute only a piece of the puzzle. Michael D. Lockshin, MD, director of the Barbara Volcker Center for Women and Rheumatic Diseases at Cornell University, believes that the interaction between a woman’s immune system and her environment is an important area that has been largely understudied. “There is no doubt that hormones are involved,” said Dr. Lockshin. “But in my belief they are part of the process, not the cause. It is possible that hormones modulate rather than trigger changes in a woman’s immune response.” So although doctors cannot adequately explain why a host of health issues can either crop up or decrease in severity during pregnancy, one thing is certain: We still have a lot to learn. Take Chava’s experience as a sufferer of multiple sclerosis:

CHAVA’S STORY: I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis 19 years ago, when I was 23. I was already the mother of three children when I started experiencing symptoms, and an MRI confirmed the diagnosis. [Multiple sclerosis is an autoimmune disease that attacks the myelin, the fatty substance that surrounds and protects nerve fibers in the central nervous system. Symptoms

WORS A W R TY TO MY DOCBOUT MY SAFENT. RIED A AME PREGNA IF I BEC LD BE LIKE EST, “IT WOUING THE BUSI H CROSS ST ROAD WIT ” HE CRAZIE YES CLOSED, YOUR E D ME. WARNE include muscle weakness and stiffness, impaired balance and coordination, numbness and blurred vision.] At one point I had a total loss of sensation in my legs; I couldn’t feel them at all. At other times my eyes would go, but I was determined not to allow the chronic illness to take over my life. My doctor was worried about my safety if I became pregnant. “It would be like crossing the busiest, craziest road with your eyes closed,” he warned me. At that time, there wasn’t much research about the effects of pregnancy on MS. I went for another opinion, but the second doctor concurred with the first. My husband was worried too. I was pretty sick, in and out of the hospital with alarming frequency. We traveled to Eretz Yisrael for brachos from gedolim. I had hit rock bottom and was very discouraged. I sent my husband to Rav Chaim Kanievsky for a brachah, and he said, “I can’t tell your wife to have bitachon, but if she has bitachon, everything will be okay.” I really wasn’t doing so well. I was on a lot of steroids. But the

treatments for MS only work to buy more time, and researchers still haven’t found a cure. Six years after my diagnosis, I found out that I was expecting and had to stop taking all of my medications. But for some reason I continued to do extremely well; my symptoms were in remission. I was able to function and didn’t feel like I was struggling with the illness quite so intensely, as I had been just a few weeks before. I did develop some complications, such as uncontrollable gestational diabetes. It made me realize that things aren’t so straightforward. But in terms of my MS I was okay, so it was a period of relative calm. I wasn’t nervous at all during the pregnancy. I just knew everything would be okay and rode with it. My family members and friends were concerned, but I was very determined that Hashem would take care of me. Baruch Hashem, my daughter was born healthy.

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

After her birth I was extremely tired but still felt good. I worried, though, about how I would manage when I got home from the beit hachlamah [convalescent home], as the doctors had warned me that I would probably relapse. As they predicted, I did, and I began to experience severe symptoms a few weeks later. Then I found out that I was expecting again! It was such a chesed from Hashem. Again, I felt the symptoms subside, which lasted for the duration of the pregnancy. Not long after this birth, roughly a month or so afterwards, the symptoms returned in full force. I was literally knocked off my feet. I was hospitalized for three weeks and given steroids intravenously. My husband and older children had to take care of my two babies at home. A few years passed and I found that I was expecting again. Thank G-d, the MS symptoms decreased in intensity, but in addition to gestational diabetes, this time I developed complications in my lungs and had to be hospitalized. The doctors determined that I needed a C-section, but I was terrified of undergoing general anesthesia, which isn’t recommended for someone with MS. But they gave it to me anyway because the baby was in danger. When I woke up I discovered that I was completely paralyzed; I could feel nothing. I was placed in the ICU. The first few days were scary until it wore off. Unfortunately, the MS returned a few weeks postpartum. I’m not sure why this occurs, but I speculate that it has to do with MS being an autoimmune disease. I believe that a pregnancy— which is essentially a foreign body that the host must tolerate—causes the body to stop attacking itself. “Your wife won’t be on her feet for much longer,” the doctor who initially diagnosed me told my husband. I would love for this doctor to have the opportunity to see my miracle children today.

ESTHER’S STORY:

I started getting very bad eczema as an adolescent. When my children were young it was

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Getting Rid of Fears— While You Sleep

medica minutel Latest H and Reseealth News Around tharch from e World

EXPOSURE THERAPY BETTER WITH SHUT-EYE

Irrational fears can be debilitating. Phobias about harmless insects or safe heights drive sufferers into constrained modes of living. The most successful method of dealing with phobias is exposure therapy, which can produce amazing results in only a few sessions. Now a study in Nature Neuroscience has shown that not only may exposure therapy produce results when carried out on sleeping people, it may even be more effective when they are asleep than when they are awake. Katherina Hauner, a neuroscientist at Northwestern University’s Feinberg School of Medicine, in Chicago, used conditioning methods to generate fears in study subjects. She gave them small electric shocks while they looked at images of faces and smelled various scents. Eventually the subjects developed a fear response to seeing the images or smelling the scents even when the shocks weren’t applied. Then Hauner exposed the subjects to some of the fear-associated scents repeatedly while they slept, in a manner similar to exposure therapy. She found that those images associated with the scents she had used with the sleeping patients no longer produced the fear responses, and that happened more quickly than exposure therapy worked on patients who were awake. Hauner’s technique is too new to know how it can be made into a practical therapy for phobias. But it shows promise that getting rid of your fears may soon be a more restful proposition.

SNAKE OIL THAT REALLY WORKS Unconventional source of heart health?

A recent article in The Atlantic highlighted work being carried out by Dr. Leslie Leinwand, a molecular biologist at the University of Colorado in Boulder who is developing a heart disease treatment that comes from pythons. That specific type of snake has a funny habit. Pythons, though they are known to be voracious eaters, often won’t eat anything for up to a year. They prepare for such lengthy fasts by massively building up heart muscle, in a process that involves sudden and extreme changes in metabolism, insulin production and other factors. When that’s done, after about a day, the mass of the python’s heart often has doubled. When Leinwand learned about this phenomenon, she realized that it might be a way of repairing damage to human hearts, as well. So far, her team has isolated the chemicals involved in the python’s magical transformation and has carried out extensive testing in mice. They’ve been successful in using the python’s heart juice in growing healthy heart tissue in a way that doesn’t endanger the mice’s health, and they’re starting research on how they can use it to repair damaged hearts. Dr. Leinwand will need to test the “snake oil” in dogs next and then finally in human volunteers before she and her team can bring a drug to market. But she is optimistic that within a decade a python-derived treatment will revolutionize health for heart patients.

particularly bad; my fingers were always so cracked and would bleed so much that I dreaded putting on my kids’ socks and changing sheets, but when I was pregnant the eczema would go away completely. In fact, that was always the first sign that I was expecting—and I have ten kids! After the birth it would take a few weeks postpartum for the eczema to return, which it always did.

DINA’S STORY:

In 1988, when I was 18, I was told that I had endometriosis. It was very painful, but my gynecologist explained that the hormones produced during pregnancy can often “cure” this disease. However, if I didn’t have a baby soon, I would face the strong likelihood of infertility. Luckily, I got married! My family was very unsupportive of the idea (at the time I wasn’t yet frum), believing that I was too young for the responsibility of a husband and child. They worried that the marriage wouldn’t last. I still hadn’t finished college, and they thought it would be impossible for me to complete my education with a baby in tow. But I was determined to have a family. A year later I was blessed with a baby girl, when I was 19 years old. Thankfully, the doctor was right and my family was wrong! The pregnancy permanently cured my condition, and I’m still married. I not only went on to finish my bachelor’s and master’s degrees; I even got a PhD in education. I never regretted my decision. I feel blessed by my four children, who give me a lot of nachas. And I never again suffered from the pain of endometriosis!

u Dina’s experience illustrates that not only can certain autoimmune diseases go into remission during pregnancy, but there are also various gynecological issues that can be relieved or even resolved when a woman is expecting. Researchers believe that this phenomenon is due to the pregnancy hormones estrone and estriol, which reduce the growth of endometrial cells. The body also stops producing estradiol during pregnancy, which feeds the overgrowth of endometrial cells, causing them to eventually shrivel up and dry out. Women who suffer from endometriosis can thus often find that a pregnancy is really a double blessing, providing the mother with a gift of life—and much-needed relief. May Hashem speedily grant scientists the knowledge to understand why some diseases go into remission or are healed during pregnancy, and be given the ability to harvest this blessing to “deliver” healing where it is desperately needed. n 5 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 4

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My Neighbor,

BY YEDIDA WOLFE

Rochel Orenstein

Rebbetzin

My upstairs mentor's giving nature was as fascinating as her family's history.

''T

he most important thing for a Jew is to be humble,” Rebbetzin Rochel Orenstein tells me, shifting the focus of the conversation away from herself. Elegant in her suit and sheitel, Rebbetzin Orenstein invites me to sit down at her dining room table. Pictures of gedolim line the dining room wall, along with a letter from the Brisker Rav recommending her husband Rabbi Shmuel Orenstein, a”h, to learn in Vilna before the war. It’s been eight years since we moved away from the apartment beneath the Orenstein’s home and shtiebel in the brownstone on West 89th Street. I am excited for the opportunity to find out more about my special mentor, whose open heart welcomed us into her family for Shabbos seudos and for simchos, while offering shrewd advice and encouragement so subtly I feel like her confidante instead of a protégée. I remember the first time we met. Rebbetzin Orenstein welcomed me upstairs as the rabbi, her husband, went to find the key to the apartment we wanted to rent below their tiny, woodpaneled shul on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I was nervous to make a good impression. It was a full floor of a brownstone for a very good price. Waiting for the key, answering the Rebbetzin’s friendly questions about my background, I wanted to know more about our new neighbors, with their thick accents, offering another glass of orange juice.

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The lace curtains in the dining room fluttered in the summer breeze. I would find out later that the shul had been in Rebbetzin Orenstein’s family since 1942 when her holy father, Rabbi Binyamin Halberstam, the Rudniker Rav, moved uptown from the Lower East Side. The Rudniker Rav left Poland in 1937 for the United States to serve as a rav and prepare the way for his wife Alta Dreizel and four children to join him. During the four years we lived downstairs, Rebbetzin Orenstein would share the miracle of her family’s survival. I loved standing in her kitchen across from the front door, having brought her a watermelon—getting a story as reward for my service. And of course reimbursement for whatever I’d spent—accurate to the penny. I used to protest, offering the watermelon as a gift, but she would insist on reimbursing me. “My father was yashar. He even paid the social security for the housekeeper so she wouldn’t have to work in her old age,” she said.

SOLID ROOTS

I ask her how she came to exemplify Torah values so clearly, relating to everyone she encounters in and outside of her religious circle with her unique generosity of spirit. “I didn’t invent anything new,” she continues. Rebbetzin Orenstein credits her parents and grandparents for her approach.

“My mother was very special,” Rebbetzin Orenstein explains. “She was a daughter of a rebbe, educated like a boy in Judaic studies, and fluent in Hebrew and spoke several languages. In addition, she enjoyed German authors like Ibsen and Heine. She was very frum yet knowledgeable about the surrounding cultures.” Rebbetzin Orenstein’s father was the rav of Rudnik, a small town in Galicia, Poland, known for its handmade wicker baskets. This scion of European Jewry, descended from the Divrei Chaim, had been sent to America in the 1920s to help establish Yiddishkeit in the “goldene medinah,” due to the questionable future of Jewish life in Europe. Rabbi Halberstam was one of the founders of the Agudah; early meetings took place in his Lower East Side apartment. Yet when it was time for him to get married, his mother-inlaw insisted he come back to Europe. Rebbetzin Orenstein’s grandmother was a Horowitz, the daughter of the Rozvadover Rebbe, and related to the Satmar Rebbe and to many other geonim. The Belzer Rebbe stood up when she entered the room and many sought her advice and blessings. But she didn’t want “American doros [generations].” So the Rudniker Rav returned to Europe to marry. Rebbetzin Orenstein notes, “Little did she imagine that her only doros would be in America.”

ESCAPING EUROPE

Rabbi Halberstam was sponsored to come to America again

in 1937 to serve as a rav for the Lower East Side. He planned to prepare the way for his wife and four children, including young Rochel, to follow as soon as possible. But it would take nearly a decade until the family would join him in New York. Alone, Rebbetzin Halberstam walked out of the village on foot with her four small children to escape the Germans and wound up on the Russian side. People questioned: “Why are you leaving? You have small children. They never kill women and children.” “I’ve read Mein Kampf. I know German culture. They are very punktlich,” her mother answered. “I believe they will carry out what they say: To destroy a culture, start with the children.” Rebbetzin Halberstam foresaw that the Germans were people of action; she perceived the cruelty that would ensue. Tragically, few who returned home to Poland survived. Rabbi Halberstam had arranged visas in Moscow, but the war started before his wife and children could retrieve them. Though Rebbetzin Orenstein, her mother and siblings escaped the Germans, the Russians eventually sent them to Siberia. “Russian soldiers came one Friday night,” Rebbetzin Orenstein recounts. “They took us out of bed, let us bring one small suitcase, and packed us into a train cattle car,” adding, “The Shabbos candles were still burning.” The ride was difficult, but Rebbetzin Orenstein counts her blessings. The guards weren’t cruel compared to the atrocities of Treblinka, and the locals in Siberia—and later, Kazakhstan— were sympathetic to a woman traveling alone with her children. 5 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 4

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The biggest hardship was the hunger. Her father’s packages helped keep them alive. The Soviets allowed all of the Rudniker Rav’s mail and presents to his family, after imposing a 100-percent tax on the items, until the war ravaged Europe and nothing could get through. “It was tough, but we survived,” Rebbetzin Orenstein says with reserve. This is the most I’ve heard about her time in Siberia and Kazakhstan during the twelve years I’ve known her. (Usually we discuss current events, their impact on the society at large, and the implications for Jews.) In 1942, Rabbi Halberstam moved uptown to the building where we lived, a four-story brownstone half a block from Riverside Park. The shul attracted refugees, mostly from Belgium and Switzerland, who were settling on the West Side. During this time, the majority of Eastern European Jews escaping the war went to Boro Park, Williamsburg or the Lower East Side, though the Bobover Rebbe lived on the Upper West Side for fifteen months before moving to Crown Heights, and later to Boro Park. In 1946, Rebbetzin Halberstam and her children finally arrived. Young Rochel was seventeen. She’d spent six years in Siberia, without access to school. Rebbetzin Orenstein finished high school and began working right away as a secretary in a Jewish Federation organization, advancing her English skills quickly. Though the war had interrupted her education, Rebbetzin Orenstein read widely and initiated a Shabbos shiur that’s lasted twentyfive years. During the week, she learns the yud-gimmel middos of Hashem with her son over the phone.

RESETTLING RUSSIANS

Russian exile set the stage for Rebbetzin Orenstein’s next career move.

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Working at New York Association for New Americans, another organization under the Jewish Federation umbrella, Rebbetzin Orenstein witnessed new Russian immigrants in the 1970s struggling when they finally reached New York. Well-meaning caseworkers were trying to encourage the Russians to get jobs but had no idea about the Communist culture they were coming from. The new arrivals kept asking about the US government’s next “Five-Year Plan,” completely baffled by capitalism. Having lived under Soviet rule, Rebbetzin Orenstein understood the mindset. Noticing that the organization had no context to understand these new immigrants, Rebbetzin Orenstein went back to Hunter College to get her master’s degree in social work, so she could help the Russian refugees settle in. For the next twentyfive years, she worked on transitioning new Russian immigrants to life in America. Rabbi Orenstein connected with the Russian immigrants as well, since he had also spent the war in Siberia. Learning in Rabbi Kaminetsky’s yeshivah in Vilna, Rabbi Orenstein was caught by the Russians. They sent him to Siberia, where he and his friends started an underground yeshivah. The yeshivah ran undetected for four years, until the authorities arrested the Rabbi. The Soviets imprisoned and tortured Rabbi Orenstein to get him to confess, yet he never gave up the names of his friends. “Our house was filled with Russians,” Rebbetzin Orenstein reminisces. Many Russians stayed temporarily at the Belnord Hotel on West 87th Street, just a few blocks from the Orenstein’s home. One day Rivka, the oldest daughter, heard a young couple speaking Russian on Broadway. She introduced herself in Yiddish, inviting them to her parents’ house Friday night. They answered in broken German, protesting, “Your mother doesn’t know us, we can’t come.” Rivka reassured them it would be okay. Rebbetzin Orenstein smiles at the memory. “They came with their two-year-old son and stayed for hours.” Today the son is shomer Shabbos. I ask Rebbetzin Orenstein about her hachnasas orchim; she and her children welcome guests, not just for one meal, but time and again, for simchos and other events, without seeming to compromise their own family unit. “Every Jew is connected,” Rebbetzin Orenstein explains. “It’s important not to minimize that we share the same shoresh—basis—of our neshamos.” I press for more details. From my own experience, balancing the needs of my own children and guests can be complicated. I want to know how she did it. “I grew up that way. My parents had an open home,” Rebbetzin Orenstein says, matter-of-factly. “Even in

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Europe, bachurim who were searching found their way to my father.” Her mother fed every Jew who came to her door—and there were many. Like her mother, Rebbetzin Orenstein hosted guests from different backgrounds, emphasizing that the atmosphere of the home is key. She explains: “The children grew up in a strong home. Their father was a rav who was a real yeshivah person. That was his life.” “They went to camps in the summer, to Prager’s bungalow colony, and they went to frum schools. They saw real Yiddishkeit at home. It [the secular culture] didn’t have a big influence.” I am curious about how the West Side has changed since her father first arrived in 1942. “We weren’t alone,” says Rebbetzin Orenstein. “There were many other frum families.” The war refugees brought frumkeit to the West Side. Rebbetzin Orenstein’s brother had to travel to Torah Vodaath in Brooklyn when they first arrived. By the time she sent her sons to school, the Chofetz Chaim’s son-in-law, Rav Mendel Zaks, zt”l, and ybl”c Rav Moshe Feigelstock opened the Chofetz Chaim Yeshiva Ketana down the block from the shul, which is still there today (now called Yeshiva Ketana of Manhattan). “The kids had a nice group of friends,” Rebbetzin Orenstein tells me. Over time, there was a shift on the West Side and everywhere really. “It became popular to become observant,” says Rebbetzin Orenstein. Her husband learned with a group of baalei teshuvah. Many of them eventually moved away as they got married and had kids. The families who stayed continue to reap the benefits. Rebbetzin Orenstein invites the kids over for kugel every Friday afternoon. “She expects us,” one mother told me. The few times Rebbetzin Orenstein went away for Shabbos, she sent the kugel Thursday with a note, saying she’d miss the kids. Rebbetzin Orenstein’s perspective on children is inspiring: The noise is “a brachah,” and finishing the entire orange juice carton is “a brachah.” Rebbetzin Orenstein knows what’s important and what to let go. Before I leave Rebbetzin Orenstein’s apartment, I have a story to share with her. “Remember when we left the West Side for Brooklyn?” I venture. “You asked me how I was adjusting. I was having a hard time finding my place.” I continue, as she listens closely, “You told me: ‘Don’t get overwhelmed. You come from somewhere. You lived in our house. You know what you’re doing.’” She looks pleased, adding something new: “Hakadosh Baruch Hu chose you. You were destined to become frum.” As she walks me to the door, I realize how much I miss the daily chizuk I gathered from living downstairs from my mentor; and downstairs from a beis midrash, with the rabbi learning day and night, resting briefly on the benches, handing out lollipops to my toddler daughters every time he saw us come and go. I miss hearing shofar in my living room during Elul. I miss the rabbi telling me, “Don’t bring up the mail, I can do it myself.” Then he’d accompany his gentle reprimand with a story of the Chofetz Chaim performing all the tasks he was able to, not allowing any students to help him as long as he could. I miss the smell of Shabbos food wafting down the stairs on Friday afternoon: kugel, chicken soup, and cholent. I yearn for the comfort of the boisterous voices and bumping of suitcases when her children and grandchildren would arrive from Lakewood, Passaic or Monsey to spend Shabbos in the city. Rebbetzin Orenstein extends an invitation for Shabbos. I accept willingly, eager for my kids to soak up the love of Yiddishkeit, kavod HaTorah, generosity and sharp insight that penetrate her home. n

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PARENTING

CHOOSING A BABYSITTER HOW DO YOU KNOW IF YOUR BABYSITTER CAN BE TRUSTED? TEN SIMPLE TIPS:

You’ve gotta’ love ’em.

While your little one might not always be in the mood to stay with his sitter, the babysitter should always be in the mood to watch your child. Observe her smile: Does it seem genuine or forced? Does the sitter appear impatient? These are all warning signs that the sitter likes her paycheck, not your kid.

Let’s stay connected.

If your babysitter prefers that you not call, and is in a rush to put down the phone when you do, beware. If she sounds like she has something to hide, she just might.

My time is valuable. So is yours.

A reliable babysitter not only shows up on time, but also informs you if she can’t make it on any given day, preferably several days in advance. Even better: She helps you find a substitute.

Oops!

An accident, (such as a tumble, a bruise, or a mild burn) can happen once, or perhaps twice. More often, and it’s time to look for another sitter, pronto.

Not too messy nor too clean

Naturally, we all want our children clean and well-cared for. But if there are no signs of wear and tear (your crawling child’s light pants are pristine), it may be a sign she’s being cooped up in her crib or playpen for hours.

101 BY CHAYA SILBER

YOUR KID CRIES WHENEVER YOU DROP HER OFF AT THE SITTER. IS IT JUST REGULAR SEPARATION ANXIETY OR SOMETHING MORE SINISTER?

Fear in his eyes

Kid cries when you drop him off? That’s probably normal. What isn’t normal is a flash of fear or anxiety in his eyes. If your child’s personality changed, and he becomes more clingy and fearful instead of calming down, perhaps you’d better find another babysitter.

No secrets allowed

Is your babysitter secretive about your child’s daily schedule? You have a right to know exactly when your child napped, and what he or she ate that day. If the details don’t add up, it’s time to dig deeper.

Nighty-night

Did your child suddenly start waking up at night with bad dreams? This may be a random stage, or it may have some connection with his experience during the daytime. If you sense something’s wrong, go with your gut feeling.

Safety first

Ideally, your babysitter should be knowledgeable about basic first aid and CPR, and know how to call for help. If she seems overly anxious about safety, or conversely, overly careless and unconcerned, you ought to be concerned.

Just like a shidduch

The relationship between you and your babysitter is a personal one. It has to feel comfortable, to “click.” If you feel the babysitter is critical of your parenting style or not interested in suggestions, she may be an excellent sitter—for someone else’s kid. You’ve got to find the right match.

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This is the shidduch saga of a staunch and proud chasidic family. Their four eldest children—a son, 22; a daughter, 21; and two sons, 20 and 19—are not married. Now, that may not be a problem everywhere, but in Mimmi Kirsch’s circle, where boys marry at eighteen and girls do not marry before their brothers, it is a huge challenge.

By Mimmi Kirsch

FOLLOW MIMMI KIRSCH ON HER SEARCH FOR A SHIDDUCH FOR HER SON

shidduch saga Pre-Yom-Tov Rush

Navigating the grocery store—and the shidduch parshah

I carved out a slice of time between housekeeping, work, and social/family obligations, for errands and marketing, with my trusty cell phone in hand. I tried not to think of Srully’s impending “meeting” with a “father.” But I hadn’t even entered the store when the shadchanta, whom I’ll call Mrs. Weiss, called to change the prearranged time and place. I politely say “no problem.” I left a message for Srully, hoping he’d check his messages before going to the agreed upon meeting. No such luck! My cell phone’s battery had died! I was frantic, since I had to be accessible to the shadchanta, my husband, my son, etc. I entered the store and headed toward the Customer Service cubicle. Without being too specific, I requested phone charging service while I shop. They were happy to accommodate me and located the compatible AC cord for my phone. They were more than happy to phone sit while I shop, but I needed to field the calls too, so I scanned the walls for outlets as I

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crisscrossed the aisles, bagged the produce and ran to and fro alternating between the calls and texts When the phone calls got too detailed, I had to exit the store for privacy. Back and forth I went, again scanning the walls for outlets. Of all days, my phone battery was acting up. This had never happened before. As usual, I met a lot of people at the supermarket. Everyone was polite and friendly and made small talk. But I was too nervous about the impending meeting. I pasted an artificial “all’s well” kind of smile on my face which succeeded at fooling some, but which didn’t fool some others. I had to discern who was really in need of my time and attention. I’m aware of the responsibility of either “making” or “breaking” a sensitive someone’s mood or day. Then I met Shprintze, who is an acquaintance and a fellow parent in the school. We always nod in acknowledgement with a friendly smile,

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not more than that. Now, in the midst of this frenzy she was suddenly interrogating me, and I found myself engaged in providing a “resume” on my son. It was a good thing my trusty (?!) phone buzzed, so I was able to excuse myself really fast. It was odd for her to inquire in such depth. And she had this “nebach on her” expression. Isn’t everyone in a rush with a three-day Yom Tov looming so close? I thought. I couldn’t give it much thought, though, as I was multitasking to the max. The delayed meeting did take place. It went well, too, baruch Hashem. Or at least Srully thinks so. Later that day, among the “gazillion” chores, we sorted through the day’s mail. One envelope was from our daughter’s high school, addressed to her as an alumnus. Among the updates and upcoming events was the appeal to daven for several situations for some of the alumna families. There, among the ill and the needy, were our three eldests’ names

ben and bas MY name. Aaahaa! Not only did it explain Shprintze, I suddenly remembered the incident with Kayla. Kayla’s daughter is a mother of two children, ka”h. She is a close friend of my daughter’s. So in walks Kayla’s mother to my place of work the other day, all smiles. I was really delighted to see her, since we have spent a lot of time involved in our daughters’ past projects together. After the pleasantries I was eager to provide her with the service my employer has to offer, when she kindly said, “No thanks, I just came to see you.” I thought it was nice but odd. Now I understood. We’re all on the same high school’s mailing list. While I appreciate and surely need those tefillos, I’ll reciprocate and daven for all those marrieds not listed on the nebach list, that they live in bliss and harmony. I hope their rents get paid and their babies

are born healthy and raised easily. We are all equally vulnerable, and at Hashem’s mercy at whatever stage we’re in. I guess a part of me feels humiliated. As the days progressed, and with my cell phone back to its normal performance, I got some shidduch calls. One voicemail message said: “Hi, its Aidel Shain calling. I have a prize shidduch for you! Call me back ASAP.” Since we hadn’t heard back from the father who met Srully, I called her back. “Mrs. Kirsch?! No! I didn’t call you, I called Mrs. Fuerst. I have nothing for you.” “Oh! That’s my sister-in-law. Yes, she does have a son in shidduchim. Can I give you the correct phone number?” We’re still waiting to hear from Mrs. Weiss. To be continued...

the right time

Mimmi Kirsch is a pseudonym.

shidtrue d taleuch s

For the longest time I had been trying to convince my friend, Shira Lonner, to go out with Chaim Gluck. Chaim Gluck was a good friend of my husband’s, and I thought he would really be a good match for my friend. Unfortunately, she didn’t think so. “The boy is not for me,” Shira insisted. “He is way too American for me. I’m looking for someone who is more the Hungarian type.” “What makes you this sure?” I asked. “I really think the two of you are a great match. Why don’t you just give it one date?” “I don’t date for fun,” Shira replied. “And don’t ask me again. He is not for me. Think of someone else.” Well I did ask her again and again, but she refused. I really thought my friend was being stubborn for no reason. After a while I just gave up, and started looking into other shidduchim for her. But deep in my heart I still hoped she would just say yes to the Gluck boy. One day I got a phone call from Shira. She wanted information about Chaim Gluck. “You must be kidding me!” I said, flabbergasted. “Don’t tell me you are finally interested!” “I am,” she replied with a chuckle. She then proceeded to tell me about how her family had been invited by a family friend for a Friday night meal. There was a bochur who had also been invited, who made a fantastic impression on the entire family. After some discreet inquiry, they found out that this was none other than Chaim Gluck. And, as they say, the rest is history. I just couldn’t resist saying “I told you so!” to my friend, when I went to wish her mazel tov at her vort. By Chaya Gross

shidduchresources

COMPILED BY ESTHER GARTENHAUS

The sheer volume of e-mails, letters, phone calls and faxes we receive, regarding the shidduch crisis, is eyeopening. This column is our contribution to help address this crisis. A more complete list appears on our website: www.amimagazine.org. This is a joint communal effort, so we need to hear from you! Shadchanim and activists: Contact Esther Gartenhaus at matchmaker@amimagazine.org to list your appropriate services, shidduch meetings and pertinent activities!

General Shidduchim

Mrs. Lisa Elefant 718.256.7525 / LisaElefant@yahoo.com Mrs. Ethel Halpert 718.853.4083 / Motzaei Shabbos Mrs. Rayzel Harrar 718.376.8547 Mrs. Hadassah Hoffner 718.309.5700 Mrs. Chana Rivka Jacobs 718.256.7525 at Binyan Adei Ad The Kesher Connection of Boro Park 718.576.1094 support@kesherconnection.com. Mrs. Pearl Klepfish 718.338.8106 Mrs. Koenig 718.258.8475 (chasidishe shiduchim) Mrs. Dina Lapp 917.470.4840 / diny613@gmail.com lchaimshidduch.com Mrs. Tova Liebb 732.367.7252 / tliebb@yahoo.com Mrs. Libby Lieberman Mazal.brocha@gmail.com Mrs. Rivka Littman rivkalittman@yahoo.com Mrs. Devorah Meyer 718.213.0761 / MTW 8–10:30 p.m. Mrs. Shaindy Mitnick 347.322.0001 / afternoons and evenings / shaindymitnick@gmail.com Mrs. Chava Most Fax: 732.377.5484 / sensitiveshidduchim@gmail.com / specializes in shidduchim for individuals with physical, medical, fertility and genetic conditions Rabbi Ahron Mueller 848.299.2598 National Council of Young Israel Shidduch Program Department 212.929.1525, ext. 150 / jsteinig@youngisrael.org Mr. Motti Neuhaus mottineuhaus@yahoo.com Mrs. Esther Notis 732.367.7942 / Please leave message. Mrs. Adina Reich adinareich@gmail.com Resumé Center ifoundashidduch@gmail.com Mrs. Chana Rose chanarose36@verizon.net Mrs. Rochel Rubanowitz 212.543.2723 Mrs. Joy Scher proudbubby1@aol.com Mrs. Sara Schwarcz 718.854.8722 / 917.446.3213 Mrs. Baila Sebrow 516.239.0564 / bsebrow@aol.com Mrs. Chaya Segal 718.854.6315 / evenings / specializes in older singles Mrs. Blimmie Stamm 732.363.1554 Mrs. Esther Zywica zywica111@gmail.com

FOR COMP THE LETE L IST, GO TO amim agazin e.org

Mental Health/Emotional Issues Shoshana Goldman 718.983.9187 Temima Gross 410.358.7017 / temiragross@gmail.com

Ohel’s Simcha Program / Sarah Kahan 718.686.3262 sarah_kahan@ohelfamily.org fcbrecher@gmail.com

Public Announcements Thanks to those women who have called in to volunteer assistance with shidduch calls! If you are articulate and capable, please call in. More are needed! 347.482.8429 Plenty of shadchanim…yet never enough! Join as a volunteer shadchan. Call Kesher Connection at 718.576.1094. Resource for previously married men and women. Also, singles willing to marry previously married men and women, contact Mrs. B. Stein. belle960@gmail.com Seeking girls for quality, frum, working (non-degreed) chasidishe boys! 845.425.7520 SHADCHANUS SERVICES—HIRE BY THE HOUR. Hire your own private shadchan to network for

you! Shadchanim and interested parties, please contact Ruchie 718.438.2834 for more details. Shidduch meetings in Kensington. For details, call Mrs. Edie Jaffe at 718.853.8691. Looking for single girls/women of all ages, with controlled medical issues (i.e., on meds). Many special compatible young men available! Confidential! Please call Rivky 718.419.7855 Shidduchim Workshops in Brooklyn, Lakewood, or your town! Premarital/Shidduch hadrachah workshops with Mrs. Esther Gartenhaus for post high-school girls/young women! Call to schedule your workshop and for private appointments: 347.482.8429

Israel

Mrs. Yehudis Abir 02.586.3310 / evening hours / judyabir@gmail.com Mrs. Shulamit Goldberger 02.561.1019 V’hareinu B’vinunei (Yiddish-speaking organization) Shidduch for zivug sheini 011-972-54-849-9440

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We welcome your letters, comments and shidduch questions, as well as helpful ideas, advice and tips on...shidduchim! Contact us at matchmaker@amimagazine.org or via phone (718.534.8800) or fax (718.484.7731).

THE

NARROW

BRIDGE B

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE LAST WEEK: SHULI REALIZES SHE HAD NAIVELY HOPED HER PARENTING SKILLS WOULD SAVE HER MARRIAGE.

Ground Rules

had finally bitten the bullet and gotten myself a secretary, so I was surprised when I saw Shraga Levine’s name on my patient schedule. In the past, I had made all of my appointments myself, and would therefore be prepared for anything unusual. But since Margalit’s passing I had to conserve all my energy for my children. I outsourced whatever I could, which was why I had hired a secretary. I had mixed feelings about seeing Shraga again. On the one hand, I felt for the guy. That accident had really knocked him for a loop. I know he didn’t have an easy time of it, having to relearn how to walk and nearly losing his leg. Something like that would cause anyone to reevaluate his priorities and figure out what he really wants in life. There’s nothing like nearly getting killed to put everything in the proper perspective. On the other hand, I still don’t think

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that now is a good time for him to reconsider his divorce. He’s simply too unstable, and in the interest of protecting my patient, I don’t appreciate the way he’s jerking her around. Why should she be beholden to the waxing and waning of his emotions? Reconciling after a divorce is one of the most delicate operations that can be performed in a therapeutic setting. An entirely new marriage has to be rebuilt on the ashes of the old one. New habits must be established, and old hurts must be forgiven and buried. It’s as complicated as any surgical procedure taking place on an operating table. Although I’ve helped many couples improve their marriages, bringing them back from the brink of divorce, in all my years of practice I’ve reunited only one divorced couple—and it almost took everything out of me. That is, of course, not counting my own remarriage, but that was more out of necessity, because Margalit got sick. 5 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 4

I am very grateful that it worked out, but it’s not something I can guarantee for others. I’d like to claim that my therapeutic skills led to the success of my remarriage, but that wouldn’t be true. I’m sure it had a lot more to do with Margalit’s warm and forgiving nature. She was the one who led us out of the woods and into the clearing, and I miss her very much. I’m so thankful I got to spend her remaining days as her husband. Watching her die was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and it made me wonder if it’s worth getting so attached to someone if you eventually have to let her go. I still say yes, but you have to be prepared to accept some pain. Getting back to Shraga, I fully intend to hear him out, but I also have to make it very clear that right now his wife is my patient, and my sympathies lie with her. I’m prepared to work with them toward reconciliation if I can somehow get them to take things seriously and

I’VE NEVER SEEN PEOPLE TORMENT EACH OTHER LIKE THESE TWO. THEY REMINDED ME OF TWO CHILDREN IN A SANDBOX. stop playing games with each other. I’ve never seen people torment each other like these two. I remember when they first came to me. They reminded me of two children in a sandbox, different but with so much in common. Despite their difficulties, they knew how to “play” well together. It’s been hard to watch them grow progressively more bitter and angry. Shraga’s accident was a real shock out of the blue. I have no idea how it will play out, but I’m certainly willing to give it a try. I took out the intake notes I had taken on them from my file cabinet and sat down to review the details. Before Shraga arrived, I wanted to remind myself what they were like when they were still married. I opened to the first page and saw that they had been married for nine years and had three children. Then something caught my eye: I was surprised to see that she was two years older than he was. That must have been

a radical decision. For some reason, I had missed that. It must have taken some courage and convincing to get that shidduch off the ground. I would have to ask them about it. I continued reading: “Trouble began, or came to a head, when husband sold house without telling wife in order to pay his debts.” I wondered if that could also be swept under the rug now that Shraga was doing so well in business. Mrs. Levine told me that he had bought another house for his new kallah, so he must be in a position to afford it. I wondered what he would do with that house now. Would he sell it or live in it by himself? Surely, if he reunited with his former wife he wouldn’t expect her to live there. Oh, yes he would! My mind snapped the answer back at me like a rubber band, and I understood that this would be something we needed to address before any serious discussion

of reconciliation got underway. It was exactly the sort of linear thinking that had gotten Shraga in trouble in the first place, and it was the first issue we would have to work on before I let him near her. The last thing either of them needed was for Shraga to blow it again with his hammerhead approach. My reverie was interrupted by the vibration of my phone, something else I had to get used to. I had asked the secretary to text me whenever a new patient arrived, and she was pretty good about it when she remembered. A lot of the time she would just call out the person’s name through the door, which was going to have to stop. “Levine here 2 C U” the text said. I groaned at the mangling of the English language and stood up to open the door. But it wasn’t Shraga who was standing there: a Levine, yes, but not Shraga nor Shuli. 

To be continued...

BY DINA NEUMAN

Chapter Twenty-Seven

here is a sense of unreality when a day that is so long awaited, or so long dreaded—or both—finally arrives. This was definitely one of those days. Lakey was sitting in the courtroom, back straight and sheitel perfect down to the last blond curl. But her heart wasn’t there. Her heart was with Henny. Henny had cried while she waited for the school bus, and then quickly dried her eyes just as the bus pulled up. “Ma, does it look like I was crying?” she had asked. She had swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, and Lakey’s heart had melted at how big and little she was all at the same time, before quickly handing her a tissue. It was Henny’s first day back in school since the mysterious allergic reaction that had stopped her breathing and sent her to the hospital. She was now armed with an EpiPen, and had been through an endless battery of tests to find out what had triggered the reaction to begin with. But so far, the doctors were stumped. Lakey was emotionally and physically wrung out from the whole thing. Avi had volunteered to take off from work and take some of the load off of Lakey, but she had said that she could do it. The feeling of taking control of the situation continued, which had first begun when she had shaken off Tova’s offer of help and gone off to the hospital by herself. It was altogether frightening, but oddly empowering. In a smooth, sudden movement, her lawyer stood up beside her and said something to the judge, and Lakey almost jumped. Focus, she told herself sternly. “Your honor,” her lawyer was saying, “I would like to cross-examine the witness.”

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*** Tova was more focused on the trial, but

a good deal of her mind was with Shmuel. “You don’t have to come,” she had told him, trying to keep any and all emotion out of her voice. “You don’t want to come, so don’t.” It had been weeks since their fight and they were still circling each other like injured boxers, looking for an opening but afraid to get hurt again. “I’ll be there,” he had repeated, his eyes fixed on a point just over her shoulder. “I said I would be there, didn’t I?” She had shrugged. “If you’d like,” she’d said. “Whatever.” After the fight, she had expected him to apologize. He was the more flexible of the two, and had always been the first one to bend. And besides, he had started it, and he was the one who had flung such horrible, hurtful—and untrue!—words at her. But he hadn’t apologized. Instead, they’d had more arguments: arguments building on arguments, and about the stupidest things. It seemed that they couldn’t agree on anything at all anymore. They had never really fought before, not really, not like this. They’d had their share of tense silences, and of careless words quickly regretted, but never this. They had never purposelessly hurt each other, and usually, afterward, they would pretend that nothing had happened and move on. But now, for the first time, neither one of them could pretend that it hadn’t happened. So Shmuel was here, in court, as he’d promised that he would be. Tova glanced at his profile and took note of

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his clenched jaw. She swallowed past a sudden spasm in her throat. Why was she always so nauseous these days? Shmuel sat beside her stiffly and didn’t respond to her sidelong glances. He was an inch away, but it might as well have been a thousand miles.

***

It didn’t take long for Tova to regret asking Elana to serve as a character witness. The two friends were opposites, she knew. While Tova had always toed the line firmly, both at home and in school, Elana had always been a hairsbreadth shy of any rule imposed on her. She hadn’t exactly been rebellious. It was more of a deep-seated lack of awareness of how to treat authority that had gotten her into so much trouble throughout her days at school. She grinned now as she sat in the witness stand, and looked around the courtroom, at the judge, at the clerk who sat below him, at the lawyers, and at the now-occupied witness stand. And Tova could almost hear her thinking—this is so cool! She answered Marvin Cohen’s questions well enough. She said that Mr. Reich and Tova had a good relationship, closer than that of a lot of fathers and daughters that she knew, herself included, that he loved her and would never write her out of the will, either completely or partially. The problem only started when Richard Thomas stood to cross-examine her. That was when Tova realized that Elana hadn’t changed much since school. “How long have you known the Reich family?” Richard Thomas asked Elana. “Since forever. I’ve been best friends

RECAP: TOVA AND SHMUEL’S FIGHT ESCALATES. SITTING IN THE HOSPITAL WITH HENNY, LAKEY FEELS THAT WITH HER NEWFOUND INDEPENDENCE AND FORTITUDE, SHE HAS SUDDENLY GROWN UP.

with Tova since preschool, ever since she traded my nasty bag of veggie chips for three chocolate-chip cookies. It was love at first bite.” Elana sat easily in the witness stand, her legs crossed comfortably. She smiled at Tova, who couldn’t help but smile back. “And what is your relationship currently?” “Still best friends.” “And you work for her as well, is that correct?”

this chit-chat, counselor?” The Honorable Judge Walkin interrupted irritably. “Yes, your honor.” “Then get to it. And sometime today, please.” “Please allow me to rephrase the question.” “Okay, no problem, but make it an actual question this time. What you said to me wasn’t really a question,” Elana pointed out. “It was more of a statement, and honestly, a kind of cliché one. And

Shmuel sat beside her stiffly and didn’t respond to her sidelong glances. He was an inch away, but it might as well have been a thousand miles. “Yes. Best friend as well as employee. It’s awesome.” Richard Thomas smiled. “Awesome? Some would say that is a recipe for disaster.” Elana snorted. “Recipe, ha!” In the deafening silence of the courtroom, Elana fidgeted slightly. “Or not,” she said sheepishly enough, although her eyes were dancing with humor. “I thought you were making a joke. Were you making a joke? About me being the chef? Because, recipe? Get it? Because I’m the chef, and…no? Never mind. Wasn’t that funny, anyway.” Richard Thomas bit back a smirk. “So, as I was saying, some people would say that working for a friend is a mistake.” “Is there a point buried underneath all

wrong, too. I know plenty of people who work for friends, myself included, and—” “The witness will remain silent and will answer the question!” Judge Walkin interrupted again, his eyebrows quivering dangerously. “How do I stay quiet and answer—” Elana snapped her mouth shut midsentence when the judge employed full use of his patented Death Glare. “Yes, your honor.” She winked at Tova, who smiled back weakly. Grow up, Tova mouthed. Make me, Elana mouthed back, and quickly turned it into a cough. “How is your relationship with your best friend since she became your boss?” Thomas asked. Elana shrugged. “Great. It hasn’t really

changed anything, except we get to spend time together every day.” “And did your best friend-slash-boss ever talk with you about her relationship with her father?” “Well, I guess so. I mean, they were really close.” “How close?” Elana hesitated. “Very close. I mean, she ran the household pretty much since she was little. She didn’t have as much free time as I had because she had lots of responsibilities, so lots of times I would hang out at her house instead of her coming to me, or whatever.” “How would you say her father felt about her marriage?” Elana hesitated a little longer. “Fine. Good. I mean, great.” The judge leaned over. “Need I remind the witness that she is under oath?” Elana blinked a few times before answering. Her face had lost its everpresent smile. “I mean, he was happy that she was getting married.” “Was he?” “She was his daughter! Of course he was happy!” “Was he?” “Well…he depended on her a lot. So it was hard for him when she left. But I mean, he was happy for her. But he wasn’t…” Elana paused, biting her lip. She avoided Tova’s eyes, which were wide and beseeching. “He wasn’t, like, happy happy.” She ended on a whisper. Richard Thomas nodded slowly, as if thinking this through. “He wasn’t happy happy. Mr. Reich was not happy happy when his daughter Tova got married. He was, in fact, unhappy.” He smiled again, a very small smile before adding, “Unhappy enough to take Tova out of the will?” n To be continued…

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Record-Breaker When good is better than best By Chana Sorele Teitelbaum

ometimes a dream can be so big that it floats way beyond the clouds of possibility. Then suddenly the vision goes “Poof!” The dreamer blinks disbelievingly, wondering where they went wrong. The answer is simple: It is not always a good idea to dream big. And I’m talking from experience. We had spent Shabbos in Bournemouth, as Londoners often do. The Jewish communities in England are drawn to the beautiful coastal resort because it’s just over a two-hour drive from London and boasts a lovely kosher

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hotel, making it an ideal retreat. In August, trailing along the promenade after the Friday night meal, you’d be forgiven for thinking you‘re home. You see many frum families shmoozing while cooling off in the crisp salty air. The usual cliff-top landscape is transformed by the shtreimels and black hats silhouetted against the sunset and the women’s white silk scarves flapping gently in the wind. In Bournemouth, there’s always something exciting going on during weekends, especially during the busy summer months. There are fireworks displays and air shows by the Royal Air

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Force Aerobatic Team, all spectacularly demonstrated in the skies directly above the beach. That year, Bournemouth decided to outdo itself and offer something truly sensational. Understandably, the area council prides itself in the thousands of tourists who are attracted to their amazing sky shows. I recall one year when there was an acrobat—take a deep breath here—who balanced on the tail of a military plane flying overhead at an extremely high speed while clutching onto a thin pole behind the pilot’s seat with one hand.

THEY WANTED TO MAKE THE HEADLINES. THEY DID—IN A WAY THEY NEVER ANTICIPATED.

Bournemouth

Apparently though, their performances still weren’t grand enough for their egos. They wanted to make the headlines. And the morning after the big event they did—in a way they never anticipated. They weren’t exactly happy about it. The Bournemouth City Council announced that it would be attempting to break a record for shooting 10,000 fireworks in the shortest time span ever. A representative of Guinness Book of World Records would be present to witness the achievement of this extraordinary feat. Of course, incredible excitement built up in Bournemouth and the neighboring towns, and on this balmy Sunday evening—the night I happened to be there—the traffic increased and the population swelled as residents and holidaymakers converged along this

stretch of coastline to witness the once-ina-lifetime, record-breaking fusion of light and color. People spilled over the walkway onto the streets. Many were barbecuing on the beach and enjoying the sizzling food as the fireworks crackled overhead. Others were climbing precariously over the cliff-top fence to perch at the tip of the precipice. Still more spectators floated in hired dinghy boats drifting lazily on the calm waves, ready to watch the thousands of fireworks rain down from the sky. In this square mile of sand and sea, there were students, professionals and hooligans; there were binoculars, telescopes and tripods; there were telephoto lenses protruding from SLRs programmed to capture every millisecond of glitz and movement. Hands were stiffly poised on the equipment, eyes squinting nervously through the magnifying lenses. It was not declared exactly how long the display would last, and no one wanted to dare risk missing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The clock struck 10:00. The night sky was a cloudless navy blue, interrupted only by scattered winking stars and a silver sliver of moon. The exhilaration was palpable, and the celebratory scent of beer was intoxicating. With bated breath, everyone’s focus kept shifting from their wristwatches to the sky as the crowd’s impatience mounted. A welcome announcement crackled over the amplifiers, echoing from every corner of the swarming area. Then a countdown began. Together, the fifty-thousand-strong crowd chanted in unison, “Ten, nine, eight….” At “one” we expected the bang. But silence fell: the loudest silence I have ever heard. Two whole minutes passed, two very quiet minutes. 10:03. A faint sizzle sounded way off in the distance. Like a thin crack of lightning, a single iridescent streak shot into the sky. After

a pathetic squeal, it broke into a splash of colored sprinkles and then fizzled into nothingness. Another feeble crack went off, followed by a lone red stroke darting upward before splattering desperately into dancing dots of color that disintegrated as quickly as they appeared. Next, a thunderous bang boomed across the crowd, the sound intensified by the hollow expanse of water below, followed by a frightening wall of smoke that bizarrely didn’t fade, but rather drifted forward, hovering closer toward the cliff-top under everyone’s stupefied gaze. We took a step back, our jaws hanging. There was another abrupt bang, a staccato explosion of pirouetting shapes, like an electric shock signaling trouble…then all went dead. Still, for a few minutes, everyone hung around, waiting, confident that more was yet to come, unsure if the whole thing had perhaps not even started at all. Maybe these were only warm-ups? But more fireworks did not come. Before long, shouts of anger were spat into the air as tripods were brusquely collapsed, and there was a stampede for the cars. We knew better than to wait around for trouble from opportunist hooligans whose partying plans were now ruined. The hotel was right across the street, and in an effort to get ahead of the crowd, we hurried back on foot. The following morning, the local headlines screamed with embarrassment about Bournemouth’s botched attempt at breaking a record. As for myself, I think 100 fireworks in a few minutes would’ve been just lovely —stunning actually. But Bournemouth Council wanted 10,000, and that was asking for a bit much. And it was a shame, because there’s something breathtaking about a fireworks display. And in Bournemouth’s case, good would have been better than best. But what can we do if, in our world, only the best will suffice? 

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Dear Client:

An open letter from your therapist By B. Mindy Blumenfeld, LCSW

ou walk into my office for the first time. It is a test, for both of us, and neither wants to fail. There is much you learn about me, though I reveal nothing verbally. My office is simple: four walls, a chair, a couch and a lamp. My books line the shelves, telling the story of what interests me, which theories and philosophies inform my orientation and work. My diplomas and certificates are framed, hanging quietly on the wall. You know now where I attended school, whether I graduated with honors, how many years I have been practicing. I do not wear my wedding band, but my sheitel gives you some information about my marital status. As your eyes run over my dress and my makeup (or lack thereof ), you evaluate me, judge me, and wonder if I am too frum, or not frum enough; much too quiet, or too talkative; or intelligent, or not savvy enough. I learn much about you too, not only

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in the words you use, but in those you do not. When you choose the couch over the chair, you are telling me that you are comfortable in my room, maybe that you are surrendering to the therapy experience, or that you are a child wanting the mother-therapist to hold you. Or you choose the chair, asserting yourself as an equal, perhaps holding back, threatened by my presence. Sometimes you sit down and keep your coat on, your pocketbook securely attached, and your shopping bags on your lap. You will not let down your guard even for the therapy hour. Sometimes you methodically take off your coat, hang it up on the hook behind the door, then place your bags down, phone nearby, and settle into the couch as if parked here for the day. For some of you, I am not a real person; you would not recognize me on the street, should we meet. You expect me to listen, but I am only a mirror to you, not a separate person with whom you are forming a

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relationship, in this special space, my room. For others, I am a person to entertain; you try to make me laugh, to share your life. You expect me to care about your successes, your children’s birthdays and your career choices. There are so many questions, questions you are perhaps uncomfortable to ask, or maybe altogether unaware of; instead, they remain unarticulated, but manifest themselves in your body language, and in the details of your story you choose to share. I can hear your unasked questions: Do you care about me? Can you help me? Can you take away this pain? Do you understand my pain? (Do your kids make you cry? Do you fight with your spouse? Have you ever felt alone? Were you abused as a child? Were you ever a failure?) How long will it take to heal me? If I wasn’t your client, would you still want to be my friend? If I couldn’t pay you anymore, would you still want to see me? If I come to therapy does it

IF I WASN’T YOUR CLIENT, WOULD YOU STILL WANT TO BE MY FRIEND? mean I am really crazy? Would you ever go to therapy? How does therapy work? Does therapy even work? Your questions are powerful, and although I do not have answers for them all, I have thoughts on some. I am an object relations therapist; I believe that the majority of people come to therapy for problems in relationships and how those problems manifest themselves in every aspect of their lives, and that the roots of these problems are in primary attachments. I do not believe, as early therapists did, that the quality of early attachments determines mental health, but only that attachments throughout infancy and childhood play a role in affecting positive and negative functioning as adults. Positive attachments that are ruptured later on can create dysfunction, just as negative attachments that are repaired can reverse early damage. As a therapist, my role is to create a holding environment that can repair the dysfunction of early

attachments, allowing a relationship within the room to evolve, that can be generalized to the client’s world outside of therapy. Therefore, I believe that the therapist-client connection is crucial. As a religious existentialist, I believe in the inherent meaning of life, that we all grapple with the fears engendered by the certainty of death and our need to live life authentically. I am attuned to how these concerns surface in the therapy experience. I have an eclectic arsenal, borrowing techniques and tools of different theories and orientations when needed: narrative therapy, cognitive-behavioral therapy, solution focused therapy, play therapy, motivational interviewing, psychoanalytic therapy, and structural therapy. Some therapists and theorists who have impacted my work are Irwin Yalom, Salvadore Minuchin, John Bradshaw, Victor Frankl, Karen Horney, Virginia Axelrod and D.W. Winnicot. I cannot promise that I have

experienced precisely your pain, but I can only say that most therapists are drawn to this profession from their own places of pain, which have propelled them to want to help others. If you use words and play to describe your pain, then it will help me understand you as I enter your world. When you enter my office and want to know how long it will take to heal, this is what I will tell you: Within 2-4 weeks you will feel immediate relief from the presenting problem that drove you to therapy. Within 3-6 months, and sometimes even as quickly as 6-8 weeks, the presenting problem will be mostly resolved. After six months, you will either leave therapy, satisfied that the reason you came has been worked through, or you will decide to work through other problems you have avoided, after realizing how effective therapy is to alleviate pain and work through issues. Usually, after a year, the underlying

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AMI•LIVING

days I HAVE VERY FEW FRIENDS, EACH PAINSTAKINGLY ACQUIRED AND MAINTAINED. issues that have caused the presenting problems will begin to surface. That is when the truly painful work of therapy begins. But you may choose not to stick around and witness it. Each person has her own threshold of what constitutes her equilibrium, and after the crisis passes, each person is satisfied with a different level of functioning—which may change with age or life-altering events. To ask if I would be your friend if I wasn’t your therapist is an unfair question; I have very few friends, each painstakingly acquired and maintained. But I can tell you that I am enriched by our relationship, by the opportunity to work with you. There is no need to test me, to ask if our relationship is based on monetary value, for the same reason you would not ask the question to a surgeon removing a cancerous tumor from your brain. As long as you value your life, you will find a way to pay the surgeon, and in turn the doctor values your life no more or less than you do. It is true that we charge for our services, but it is also true that we have chosen to dedicate

AMI•LIVING

OCTOBER 2, 2013

our lives to a work we believe in beyond monetary compensation. I care about you, but never more than you care about yourself. I will not work harder than you do to affect functioning. I will let you lead. When you are ready to make positive changes in your life, I will be there, but I will not push you where you are not ready to go. I trust you, and because I trust you, I will let you do the work of therapy. So do not be angry at me when I don’t give you advice. Nobody knows your life or your abilities better than you do. Despite the inherent unequal balance of power in the therapy room, I am not so arrogant to believe that I can think for you. You wonder how you can be special in this room if I have so many clients. I tell you that each 45-minute session plunges me into another chapter of one of the many books I am in the middle of reading. The threads of each book wrap me up, and the ending only concludes satisfactorily with termination of therapy. I may be sorry to close the book, but the memories of the story will linger on.

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Some of you speak in metaphors, your words like strokes upon a canvas, the colors brilliant despite the black that threatens to blanket the paintings of your lives. Some of you are silent, and in that silence is the beauty of strength of a life lived courageously, defying pain that cuts deeply but makes no sound. I can speak both languages. To all of you who come through my door, this is what I want you to know: I respect you for your courage in refusing to accept a life shadowed by pain, and am humbled by your trust in taking a chance with me. A therapist creates a new therapy with each client, and I am changed by each encounter. I feel privileged to be allowed to participate in your journey as you reach for life.  Mindy Blumenfeld, LCSW is a therapist at Tikvah at Ohel and maintains a private practice in Brooklyn. She can be contacted via Ami’s offices. To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

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