The Final Update on my Non-Colon

So. Hi Everyone.

Al here—providing [what I hope is] the last blow-by-blow health update in the latest chapter of ‘Adventures of Al’s Not-Colon.’

As previously mentioned, in May I had an experience onstage during a performance of The Music Man where I experienced blinding, lightning-fast 10/10 pain in my viscera, and was carted off-stage mid-show and hospitalized. 

 

A few weeks of tests in the Chicago area commenced, liquid diet, pain management, and I was delighted once again as I navigated the labyrinthine rigamarole of the American-healthcare system, as I was required to re-integrate myself back in to the Mount Sinai hospital system after 3 years of stability. 

 

What was wrong? I had 2 complex twists in my small intestine that leads in to the J-pouch, creating an obstruction and preventing me from being able to properly digest and pass food. The plan was to untwist me, and "tack me down" to prevent further twisting. And and and also? SURPRIIISE: once they got inside they discovered I also had a hernia! What can I say? I was always an over-achiever.

Last week—three months later—I was finally able to get the corrective "tune up" surgery I'd been waiting for since May, and wahoo: angels sang. If you have been through the joy that is the American healthcare obstacle course, you know how sweet the moment is when you finally get the treatment you need! I was home the same day and healing began. Slowly.

How it went/how it's going: Physically: 

 

The gist: healing at home was slow and FAR more painful than I anticipated. 

 

- Digestive: Amazing. I feel REBORN. It feels incredible to have the digestive system working again, drama-free. And I have returned to solid foods— which was incredible having been predominantly eating liquids since May. 

- Pain (internal): Going great. It started to ebb at day 3. 

- Pain (incisions): The major pain was the incisions themselves which were *eye-watering* in their pain level. The meds did not even make a dent in to the chandelier-ing I experienced whenever I vaguely moved, coughed, sneezed or made direct eye contact with any living creature. No exaggeration: these first 8 days post-op were beyond anything I had experienced in the first three surgeries (and, as a ridiculous statistic a proctocolectomy [removal of the large intestine, etc— ie, my first surgery] is considered to be the 4th most painful surgery to recover from — which is? WILD. 

How I am: Mentally 

 

I won’t lie to you friends, I am struggling.

 

I have felt wave after wave of physical traumatic-memory flood my body and psyche constantly in the last few weeks— sensations I had long anticipated putting to bed for good. While I was working my ass off between appointments to pay for all of this, the experience of going through some of these old “motions” (places, sensations, people, smells, sounds, literal pains) has not been breezy, and oftentimes has been outright (a word we overuse in pop psychology but I am told by professionals is apt here) triggering. 

One of the more frustrating elements of this has been the medical rigamarole of begging the system for help, waiting. Not getting to who I need to get to without doing a complex dance of charm-offensive, bureaucratic paperwork and sparring but judicious use of the "speak to the manager" voice (my least favorite voice of all). 

 

 Begging and waiting for insurance to cover things. And of course: not knowing exactly what was actually wrong, etc etc. 

- The greatest doctors I saw approached me with the respect and seriousness that comes with being the best in the world (thank you, Sergei Khaitov). 

- Some doctors met me with a “breeziness” that perhaps seduced me in to thinking this recent blockage experience is “no big deal” and something that could be handled relatively swiftly and without major interruption.  

- And then there were the doctors who outright convinced me I was “stressed” and that this was “in my head” and essentially: calling me hysterical without calling me hysterical. (It really is AMAZING being a woman... inside a healthcare system…)

It was… confusing. 

Further, so much of this was also experienced physically-without Alec— because our various jobs have taken us to different parts of the world since March. That has been extra hard. 

All of it led to me— (some of it not to be helped, some of it the power of denial)—  not really mentally grasping the scale and magnitude of what was going on inside me, partially because, I don’t think I wanted it to be true. In general I’m kind of a “slap-a-bandaid-on-and-get-on-with-it” kinda person. Not only do I not want to make a big deal, I don’t WANT it to be a big deal. I also don’t want anyone to think I AM A GIANT WEENIE. I don’t want to bore you all. I don’t want to talk about this anymore! Plus, I want to be "tough." I want to be "strong.” But sometimes toughness and strength are in surrender… Sigh. I am learning… 

I am heartbroken to have not been as present as I have wanted to be for my friends and family—missing milestones, big events; big shows, being with your children; not having the bandwidth for conversations and get-togethers that sustain meaningful connections, and sometimes forgetting or missing out on things that DO matter to me very much, simply because I am “doing colitis.” I think this is this colitis' greatest theft.

To illustrate how caught off guard I was by all of it I’ll describe the “aha" moment from the day of surgery last week. Moments before I went in to the actual surgical room, Dr. Khaitov's second-in-command surgeon Jackie (so nice, we go way back) closed her clipboard, took me by the hands, and said:

“Alexandra I want you to know we understand this is your fourth major bowel surgery in as many years, and we recognize that you’ve had a totally traumatizing surgical history.”

I stared at her. I vaguely blinkblinkblinked. Jackie continued:

"What you’ve been through is olympic, is cruel and unusual, and you’ve truly been SO great about it. But we’re going to do everything we can to make sure this is IT.” 

And then I just… began to sob. Because it was only then, only when this really nice surgeon was saying the actual words, giving me the permission about how I am allowed to VIEW this entire experience, that any of it actually registered with me. 

“…OH. Right,” my brain finally clicked. "This has been sort of...incredibly horrendous…and hard... and very very serious?” 

So I am taking a vulnerability leap here with my closest actual friends by sharing that I believe I am now experiencing  that “tabled” emotional reality in great big waves. I see it, I accept it, I apologize for not getting it sooner so that I could communicate it accurately to ALL OF YOU, and I vow to do and be and get, better. Healing is not linear, and these emotions must and will, be dealt with. It’s part of the healing. I once again ask for your grace as I navigate it. (You know. While also doing two unbelievably challenging plays. Because, art. But also because, healthcare.)

To every single one of you for your extensions of love, care, prayers, vibes, jokes, meditations. Thank you for the support, the gifts, the texts and voice memos and calls. The drives to appointments. The random FaceTimes. Thank you for being on my team. Thank you for allowing me to be any part of your lives. I have often said that being alive is worth fighting for— it is. But each of you, our connections and our stories and our love, is what that fought-for life is truly about. I am hungry to get back to it fully, ASAP. 

With all my heart (and none of the guts),

Al

Catherine: The Great

The great MamaSilbs left yesterday— after extending her trip slightly (because I wasn't 100%)

 

I want to take a moment to publicly thank Catherine Silber not only for, ya know, giving me life, and a lifetime of care, but for enduring so gracefully beside me. Truly: I have no personal experience that could ever instill within me the ability to fully empathize; to begin to imagine what she’s felt every day for the last few weeks (and frankly, years.)

 

Sure, she’s smoking-hot and has the horse power of 10 men, but she is also a widowed woman bearing witness to her only child going through all of this. 

She has done so with breath-taking valiance, capability and never-ending one liners.

 

 

We’ve shed a totally appropriate amount of tears over this (and many things) together, but the last two care-taking episodes (in NYC and previously in Chicago) both in the physical absence of Alec— have truly been world-class. 

 

Brava Cath. The only kid in American that loves their parent more vociferously is Gus Walz.

Standing ovation.  

Four encores. 

 

Now: where is the watermelon?

Happy Birthday, Alec

 Happy Birthday, Alec.
 
How could I possibly articulate how magnificent Alec George Hao Silver is, and what he means to me?
 
How could I ever accurately capture what he has achieved, done, and grown to be, in the last year of his life?

But I’ll try:
 
In the last year Alec has stood by me (alongside my mother of course) through 3 major surgeries, waited in hospital rooms, driven me to 100+ appointments and the ER—all with grace and calm.
 
He grew as an artist— teaching young people, acting in countless professional readings with incredible artists, and returning to live theatre as the protagonist of a new Chinese American play at the Goodman Theatre (!!).

All whilst laughing, healing, growing, finding joy, nurturing friendships, Tati, nurturing family, acting on his dreams, and cheering on his friends like no one else I know.
 
Oh and that’s right: this year, he married me. To commit to someone so fiercely in the middle of a pandemic *and* the middle of a huge health journey is a signifier of character I don’t have language for.

Alec, I love you.
And I am so glad you were born. 💜

 

"Spectacular" Accidents I have had: a List

the broken finger.

- age four, I was on a scooter at pre-school, and accidentally ran the scooter over a rogue piece of chain and landed on my face

- age five, on stage during a camp theatre performance of “Heaven Hop.” A Jealous older girl tripped me during the tap break. I fell flat on my face, the audience gasped, I got right back up and kept tapping. PRO! (There is video.)

- age sixteen, an innocent scratch turned into a corneal ulcer in my right eye at summer camp. Almost lost the eye. I didn’t.

- age seventeen. The worst wisdom tooth surgery you’ve ever imagined. Imagine something bad: then triple it. That was me. 

Nothing to see here. Literally.

- age twenty-four. I had an allergic reaction to *something* I cannot possibly detect, but it was epic. It made the right side of my face explode and we had to cancel two shows of Fiddler (in London)because we didn't have enough understudies. In short: My face healed. We got more understudies.

- age twenty-seven, I smashed the bones in the middle finger of my left hand with a 15-lb hand weight. It instantly turned black. 

- age thirty, I...left the bathtub running, and the water flooded literally my entire apartment. Mom was here and announced chirpily "Well, FLOOR'S CLEAN!" Claaaaassic #MamaSilbs.

- age thirty-two — thirty-six where do I even begin with accidents/injuries/mayhem regarding my Ulcerative Colitis? I won’t bother to but suffice it to say it began as not hilarious and is now, ALL, quite hilarious.  


- age thirty-five. I ...fell off of a motorized bicycle and landed on my face. [*Pause for sound FX*] 
     Let me explain. My big brother Jordan? He has the charisma of a CULT LEADER, and because of this special skill, he has the magical ability to convince me (and others!) to do things they maaaaayyyyybe should ask a few follow-up questions about, without asking even a single follow-up question. 

JUST before!

     Jordan made BIKING on a slightly-too-large motorized bike to and from a restaurant in Corte Madera, California, sound like the best idea EVER. And the biking back home in the dark on a path with no streetlights? AMAZING IDEA! It started off brilliantly, but then I miscalculated a turn whilst also miscalculating a HILL (thanks, Northern California), and I flipped off the bike (at a zillion miles per hour) and broke my fall with? MY FACE. 
     I still bear the scars. 

AFTER! OMFG!

     As a hilarious epilogue? Probably 12 police officers and medics came to my aid that night. (Possibly the entire Corte Madera police department? Unsure.) They were so nice to me. In awe of my sense of humor at the situation and didn't pester me when I declined to go to the hospital. A few minutes in, "Officer Scott's" radio blares: there's been a noise complaint in the district. There is a barking dog that "needs attending to." Officer Scott went to go take care of it. Before Officer Scott left I said (my face melting off and bleeding) "So what you're saying, boys, is that on this Saturday night in Corte Madera, the main action is ME... and a barking dog?" 
     The entire department called me on speakerphone the following day to "check-in." 
     All this to say: Thanks, Corte Madera Police and Medic dudes! You didn't shame me for being a total idiot, and I don't think anyone has ever cared more about my well being than my own mom. I hope the situation with the dog turned out okay. 

- age thirty-six, a beetle flew into my face in a subdivision and, in slapping it off my face in horror, I obliterated the mailbox of a local woman. I apologized (of course, of course, I’m not a monster). Paid for a new mailbox. Got her tickets to the play. 

JB: appalled at me.

Things I'm Absolutely NOT Interested in: a List

- Your detailed story about your ‘problematic journey’ here. Just say you are sorry you were late. Maybe mention train delays or traffic but move on. NO ONE cares about the minutia. Literally no one.

- Your birth video. (Put it away, Karen)

- Small talk. (Oh my God. My version of hell is an endless cocktail party of small talk and no alcohol to ease the burdens of said small talk and also, it’s so so hot in this windowless cocktail party room, and also there’s no ice in the non-alcoholic drinks because it’s hell)

- Racism / Fascism / Hate / Violence. (Obviously)

- The episodes of Murder She Wrote that Angela Lansbury introduces, but is not in. (Sorry Dennis Stanton, I like you, but not enough.)

- Hallmark (specifically, Christmas) movies.

- Curated Instagram feeds

- Perfection

- Cancel culture.

- Green peppers. (Life is too short and listen to me: I’m not disgusted by them, this isn’t cottage cheese, but I will not eat a pepper so stop putting them in literally everything)

- BUFFETS. (Especially post COVID? I mean OHMYGOD. I know I just said I’m against Cancel Culture but can we agree that buffets are now canceled?)

- How much you did or did not pay for [INSERT THING HERE] you now own.

- Photos of sourdough starter

- Karaoke.

- Discussing mine OR your dietary restrictions at length (meaning, for longer than the 60 seconds it takes to prevent either one of us from dying), and certainly with any level of sincerity. (LET ME LIVE, KAREN!!)

- Going on a cruise. As a passenger. As a performer. As a HUMAN.     
    Don’t ask me. Don’t come for me. It’s never going to happen.
    In fact, my mother and I have code language for emergencies— meaning, say, we have been kidnapped. Or we are “ready to check out of this life” and would like the other to casually “look away.” (I know this sounds a little ghoulish but honestly, everyone should have emergency and end-of-life conversations way before it’s a reality but I digress…)
    ANYWAY, my mother’s code phrase is “AL? I AM GOING ON A CRUISE!” And why is that her code phrase? Because there is NO UNIVERSE in which my mother or my sane self would EVER willingly go on a cruise without being held at gunpoint, and thus, the declaration of her going on a cruise MUST be an indicator of an emergency.

- What you think of me.

- ROMPERS.

Things I [genuinely] wish: a List

- That I could play any instrument with extraordinary virtuosity

- That I had said “that thing” to “that person” before it was too late

- That my colon wasn’t such a jerk

- That adulthood could be slipped on and off like a tailor-made couture dress

- That I could know Tati’s thoughts

- That I had my mom’s cheekbones [ughhhh those cheekbones…]

- That I genuinely loved singing more than I actually do

- That COVID19 had an available test, vaccine, and was no longer killing people

- That watermelon was a superfood

- That I could talk with my Dad. Even for 5 little minutes. 

© hula seventy

Questions from Book Tour - Part 6

At the JCC of West Bloomfield, MI - where it all began

1. How would you urge the reader to learn to approach life as you do, in relishing the mundane and the ordinary?

By recognizing that absolutely nothing is mundane or ordinary.

But also:
     Pause.
     Breathe.
     Look in people’s eyes.
     Ask thoughtful questions and really listen to the answers.
     Practice gratitude.



2. As you stress in the book, death is something none of us an avoid. Have many people reached out to you with their own stories?

Absolutely. I think that has been the most overwhelming and rewarding part. Why write a book about grief and your own boring, excessively ordinary life if not to connect to others about theirs; and thus discover that nothing is boring, and no one is ordinary at all.

It is an old maxim, but you get what you give in this one glorious life. By leading with authenticity and vulnerability, by exposing your inner-most soft places (and merely exposing, not flooding or forcing your experience down someone’s unwilling throat!)  we allowing others to behold them, at their own capacity and tempo. Calm exposure invites  one to ask the age old human question: “you too?” And that exercise welcomes people to truly connect with one another.

I am so grateful to all [including you, dear interviewer, whose name I do not have the honor of knowing—I am so truly sorry for your loss—] who have been courageous enough to share their stories with me. It has been the greatest reward of this entire process.



3. Why did you begin the book with the list of things you'd tell your 17-year-old self?

The beginning of each of the five “sections,” as well as the Epilogue begin with a return of the adult Alexandra voice, speaking directly to the reader about events from the present day that are in direct relation to the events of my/her father’s death. They are “echoes” if you will that resonate in the present, informed by the past. After those introductory section chapters, we continue with the narrative of 2001.

First, I chose to speak to my 17-year-old self, because that was the last time I was truly innocent to the events chronicled in the book—the age of my personal “BC,” some of the advice is witty and typical stuff we as adults all realize we were idiots about bak then (“buy Frizz ease”), and some is very weighty (“go on all the walks with him and tell him all the things.”)

Second, it was important to me to create a structure that calmed the reader instantly by establishing that the narrator of this book was Alexandra Silber: contemporary adult who “turned out okay” and maybe a little bit more than “fine.” While, in contrast, the protagonist of this tale is an 18-year-old “Al” who has not yet acquired the perspective and wisdom of the narrator, she is just experiencing the events in real time.

The  “things you'd tell my 17-year-old self” was a clear way to establish that there was going to be an ongoing interchange between Al and Alexandra (if you will) throughout this book, and creates for the reader a subconscious understanding that our protagonist is not yet fully processed, while our narrator, is. Those two “characters” just happen to be the same person—17 years apart.






4. Concerning everyone who helped you through this tragedy, are you still in contact with them? What have been their reactions to the book?

All of them. ‘Grey’ is a hugely successful theatrical designer. ‘Kent’ is changing the world working for a State Senator and just had a baby. Lilly is still my best friend and plays oboe all over the world. I saw her last month at the Metropolitan opera playing Strauss at American Ballet Theater.

They are, all, triumphs of human beings.

Lilly!

[The Real] Rabbi Syme

    As many of you out there are reading After Anatevka, you might be surprised to know that one of the leading questions I get is whether or not Rabbi Syme (Perchik's teacher and advocate) is based on a real person. The answer: of course he is. Rabbi Syme was indeed so influential, that I felt he had to be memorialized in After Anatevka for he was my first spiritual advocate.

    Fictional Rabbi Syme is based very loosely upon the real-life Rabbi Syme—loosely because my description in the novel is not so much a literal, but more of an evocative recollection and honoring of his influence. Real-life Rabbi Syme and I only spent a collection of minutes together in 2001, but they were crucial minutes. He gave me the gift of delivering the eulogy at my father's funeral service, as well as bearing witness to it when he lead the funeral service, and above all, he gave me an hour of his time months later, reminding me of what was eternal, and chartering a map toward the beauty, strength and individuality my faith. Irreplaceable gifts one can never forget.

    The influence of Rabbi Syme proves another true-to-life maxim: that we never know the depth of the influence we have upon one another. A fleeting moment to one, might bear a lifetime of profundity to another, for better and for worse. So it is in these tiny actions that we must recognize that our influence on earth is vast, has meaning, and should never be taken for granted.

    I include this story from my memory (also included in my upcoming memoir) in today's post because the prayer Rabbi Syme references, the Shema' Koleinu, is not only a prayer that is part of the Amidah (the core of every worship service), but especially significant on the High Holy Days, which are currently upon us.

    L'Shana Tova, one and all. May your new years be filled with positive influence that you both give and receive. Here's to a brighter and more peaceful world.


*


    Two months after the funeral I went to see Rabbi Syme.

    In the Jewish community, a rabbi is viewed as more than just a life cycle overseer, administrator, Bible reciter, or spiritual leader; but also as a counselor, a true community role model, and above all, an educator. The word Rabbi, in fact, translates as “teacher." At the time I’d be willing to admit that I required all of the above from good ol’ Rabbi Syme, a man I’d known for approximately 2 hours. I walked into Temple Bel El ready to order up the “super size me” platter of spiritual needs. Plus, I felt inexplicably close to him, compelled beyond logic to spend time in the company of the sweet, wise man who had, in such a brief collection of minutes, given me the ultimate gift—the eulogy. He had been the cartographer of the map that chartered the rest of my life.

    By the time I got to his office at Temple Beth El I realized, of course, that I barely knew him, and was suddenly embarrassed at my presence there. I knew so little of Judaism, had (unjustly) railed so harshly against it for, up until then, I had only ever associated it with my horrible grandparents.  Still, I entered and sat across from him. Two almost-strangers in two tiny chairs.

    “So. How are you doing?”

What was I supposed to say?

    “Fine, thank you Rabbi.”

I wanted to tell him about everything.

    “How is your family?”

Well well well, Rabbi Syme this is all getting a bit personal! I usually wait ’til the third date to list my favorite Mandy Patinkin roles in order of sexiness, craziness, intensity, beard length, let alone discuss my batshit-bonkers family, but I suppose I can make an exception. How. To. Respond. How can a person respond when “One time, grandma kidnapped me” is, say, the sixth most dysfunctional story?

    “I… don’t really know.”

Rabbi Syme sat up in his chair and nodded.

    “I sensed as much. They were… unusual.”

Rabbi Syme’s Spidey-skills: for the win.


    We talked for a long while that day, Rabbi Syme and I, or at least what felt like it.  It was an odd discovery, but Rabbi Syme was more than my first spiritual advisor, in many ways he was the first adult who, even in the mere three hours clocked together, was more interested in my cultivation of wisdom than of knowledge. I knew that the word Rabbi translated as “teacher” in Hebrew, but this exceeded reciting the periodic table. Knowledge is information—a collection of facts. Wisdom is the poetry inside those facts. Wisdom relies on evocation more than description. It is the difference between two photographs: one that looks exactly the way it looked in the moment, the other that looks exactly the way it felt. Memory through a lens.

    “Do you know the Shema' Koleinu” he asked, as if I actually might?
    “Rabbi, I wasn’t invited to the Bar Mitzvahs or the quinceañeras if you catch my drift.”
    “I ...do not.”
    “I’m kind of a Cashew.” He stared at me blankly. “A Catholic-Jew? An interfaith secularization situation?”
    “That’s very clever.”
    “Thank you.” I continued, nervously, “Well technically I was invited to both the Steinman kids parties and for what it’s worth I played Golde in Fiddler sophomore year of high school—”
    “I—” he stopped me, kind but swift, “I understand.”

    He went on.
    “The Shema' Koleinu is the sixteenth paragraph of a central prayer of Judaism, called the Amidah, which is the core of every Jewish worship service.

    It reads:

אָב הָרַחֲמָן, שְׁמַע קולֵנוּ, ה' אֱלהֵינוּ, חוּס וְרַחֵם עָלֵינו, וְקַבֵּל בְּרַחֲמִים וּבְרָצון אֶת ‘תְּפִלָּתֵנוּ, כִּי אֵל שׁומֵעַ תְּפִלּות וְתַחֲנוּנִים אָתָּה, וּמִלְּפָנֶיךָ מַלְכֵּנוּ. רֵיקָם אַל תְּשִׁיבֵנוּ.

    "Hear our voice, O Lord our God; spare us and have mercy upon us, and accept our prayer in mercy and favor.” Hear Our Voice is the essence of this prayer—and I sense that your voice has always been heard, both of the spoken and the sung variety. The eulogy proves that.”
    “Really?” I replied, not entirely understanding where he was leading me, all I knew was that I was willing to follow. 
    “Well I believe so. What do you think?”

     No one had ever asked me anything remotely like this, and I grew hot and uneasy fearing I would offend him, or say the wrong thing.

    “I really don’t know how to respond.”
    “There is no right or wrong here, Alexandra,” the Rabbi pacified, “it’s just a simple question. One of the beauties of Judaism is this ancient tradition of the dialogic process. Of discussion! Jews recognizing that understanding comes from meaningful exchanges, from challenges, not only with one another but with God Himself.”
    “Oh! Like in Fiddler how Tevye has a kind of dialogue with God!”
    “Exactly like that. God and Tevye have a very personal relationship.”
    “I really like that.”
    “So do I,” he smiled. “So? What do you think of ‘Hear Our Voice?’”
    “We all… want to be heard.”
    “Yes.”
    “And we all struggle to listen?”
    “I think so.” He leaned in. “Hear Our Voice is a very simple request, but it indicates that we want to engage beyond ourselves. It acknowledges the desire to be heard, and the validity of that desire.”
    “Wow,” I gasped. The thought took my breath away.
    “That’s why you are here today, isn’t it? To be heard?”

It certainly was. I nodded.    
He continued.

    “The prayer continues a few lines on: ‘Renew our days, as of old.’ Almost as if the speaker  is a little skeptical: Alexandra, do you think it is possible to recover the days of the past? And I’m not saying it isn’t.”
    “No but…” And then I saw.

    If prayers were only knowledge, prayers would fail. As wisdom, the prayer was true as anything. My father was dead. That was the fact. But the poetry of that fact could continue for the rest of my life if I turned these days of pain into lessons. Yes, the past indeed is truly “passed,” it is unrecoverable, and none of us can truly live there. But the wisdom gained by reflection upon that past is why we are alive. To make meaning. To understand better.  I looked at Rabbi Syme and said as much.
       
    “Do you believe, Alexandra?”
    “I believe you.”

I did—it wasn’t an evasion.

    “You know what I’m asking.”
    “I do. I can’t believe I’m saying it but I do. I believe in something.”
    “Well, good. ‘Something’ is possibility. ‘Something’ is something.”

    I thanked Rabbi Syme and left him that day, never to see him in person again. But his impact would be ever-with me, his name etched upon my heart, and, forever synonymous with integrity. 

The Death Bed

(7 weeks on)

A week or so after the incident with the cat Grey headed home for Thanksgiving, slated to return to his creative den as soon as possible to continue work on his model for NIDA[1] .

Left alone to our own devices, Kent suggested it might be time to start thinking about changing The Death Room— to look forward.

    “A new bed, for sure” he said, “perhaps some paint, a little classic Cath-ay DIY?”
    “Great idea” Mom said, and three hours later, Kent and I returned from grocery shopping to find that mom has discovered beautiful solid hardwood floors beneath the early 90s carpet, ripped all of it up, rolled it up and taken it out to the curb. Now, she was already hard at work on the hallway, breathless, sweating and determined. All of this served to reaffirm a notion I already knew about Mom: once you put an idea in her head— there’s (possibly literally) no stopping her...[2]

The three of us spent the remainder of the night ripping up that hideous death-beige carpet and hauling it out to the curb with the bathwater. By 3am we had disposed of the detritus of our former life upon the lips of our lawn filled with an odd sense of higher purpose— we were not scavengers rummaging through the ruins of a fallen city. We were excavators! Like Heinrich Schliemann! Below the carpets lay new, undiscovered Troys and we would be the team to peel away the rubble, reveal the past and simultaneously, the future, just like the anthropologists of yore![3]

When we woke the following morning, the artifacts were gone— taken to the same unnameable place all life’s mysteries disappear to.

But we were not empty, we were lighter somehow.

The top floor of 1367 had been stripped bare to make room for new life, and we dressed that morning with a purpose— we were going to buy a new bed.

*

Art Van on Woodward at 14 Mile was the first and only thought that sprang to mind. It was constantly blaring its name on radio and local television commercials, and besides, it was on the same strip of Woodward as Dairy Deluxe, which gave it street-cred, not to mention 0% financing til 2004... Word.

Art Van as it would turn out, was above a Mercedes dealership, to be entered by sky-scraping escalator which crested onto a cavernous warehouse of fluorescently lit sofas, dinettes, media stations and bed frames (ostensibly, a well-furnished piranha tank).

Mom, Kent and I were each splayed—snow angel style—on a series of mattresses,
     gazing upward at the humming lights.
No, this was not a party at Elton John’s house— this was Art Van.

    “Too firm over here—” Kent called out.
    “Al?”
    “S’okay. A bit squishy.”
    “I’m on one of those individual coil ones over here,” Mom said, “the one from that commercial with the glass of wine and the bowling ball.”
    “Oh yeah!”
    “How is it?”
    “It’s great. It’s just right," she pronounced, “It’s a Sealy...”

Just then Mort, a short, middle-aged gentleman whose comb over, jacket, smile, and every gesture indicated that he was an Art Van salesman, leaned over into my vision, blocking my view of the fluorescent lights like a slightly-malevolent dentist, and, hands clasped behind his back, chimed,
    “Anything I can do for you?”
He smiled a slow motion smile like a cartoon drawing from the 80s.
Nobody moved.

    “We were just waiting for our porridge to cool” I said.

Mort’s smile was as frozen upon his face as our extremities were to the mattresses, only our eyes shifted, locking on him.

    “We’ll take this one” Mom said.

Throw in three bowls of porridge and a blonde girl and we’d have had ourselves a fairy tale ending.

   “Excellent” said Mort, straightening upward, eying us still. “You’re certain of the Queen?”
    “No doubt about the Queen” Kent smiled at Mom. Plus downsizing from the King-sized Death Bed felt right.
    “And we’ll take this frame” said Mom, “I like it— it looks like a sleigh.”

It did—a chestnut, caramel-stained Queen-sized sleigh.

    “I’ll draw up the papers” said Mort, as he turned on his tiny feet, hands still behind his back.

As Mort trotted away, comb-over blinding us, we turned to Mom, who was deep in thought.
    “A new bed…” I said.
    “Yes” she said, running her hand along the hip of the frame.
    “Happy?” Kent asked in a low voice.

Mom thought a moment before answering. Of course she was not happy, her one and only love was gone— gone almost as callously as the upstairs carpets. Our family was evil and the government unhelpful. She was lost, abandoned once again, and living in Detroit with a gaggle of equally lost teenagers. It all crossed her mind, you could see it in her face, and in the thoughtful hand still caressing the chestnut bed frame.

At last the hand stopped, Mom paused and clutched the wood, felt its solid weight. She focused on the bed—her brand new Queen sized chestnut sleigh bed, with thick orthopedic mattress, box spring and 20% Thanksgiving discount, all fit for a Queen.

    “Happy...” she said.

This was a step.
A Baby Step, as Bob would say,
     toward the next stage of our new life,
and that made her happy. 
That fact.



[1] The National Institute of Dramatic Art in Sydney, Australia
[2] do not get between my mother and a power tool
[3] There was also an element of peeling off the used layer of a lint roller… But I’ll stick with Trojan excavation metaphor for now. However grand.

I've Been: Winter 2017

- Participating so meaningfully in my constitutional right to protest. I've joined marches with and for women, science, the arts, alongside my friends and colleagues at the ACLU, Planned Parenthood and Actor’s Equity.

- Ringing the gong!(A tradition at my acting agency where you ring a giant gong when you "book" a job!)

- Singing with my "DooDoo" and little sissy Samantha Massell at 54 Below (living out our BEST DUET LIFE GOALS!)

- Doing a beautiful reading of a new musical
 

- Visiting my hometown! Yay Detroit, Michigan!
     - Returning to the legendary Greek Islands
     - Catching up with old dear friends
     - Driving!
     - Buying a REAL winter coat
     - Loving the Michigan cold
     - Waiting outside in the freezing February Detroit cold to see my first gathering of The Moth downtown!
     - Celebrating my Mom’s birthday!


This. CAST!

- “Wintero-verting”

-ALL ABOARD! McCarter
    - Costume HEAVEN
    - Loving the beauty and history of Princeton
    - Making some great new theatre pals
    - Daily yoga
  
    - Loving being a part of the McCarter family

-  LEARNING MEGA LESSONS
     - personal and energetic boundaries
     - About being an 'INFJ'
     - Being an *Empath*
     - Making some serious inner peace
     - Working 2016 “out”
     - Learning allllll about psychic stress

The Countess, courtesy of William Ivey Long

     - Letting go

- Cooking!

- Doing a top secret photo-shoot for a major theatre platform (news coming soon!) with super fancy people on a dream come true kind of day. (Pssst - keep your eyes peeled on the Time Warner Center for giant crazy images of yours truly)

- Making peace with solitude

- Rumbling with health again

- Resting and Healing

- Learning even more about health (which is so much ore than the mere absence of disease)

- a true and complete 5-hour Hassidic seder on Passover at the wonderful internet sensation, Rabbi Mordecai Lightstone’s in Crown Heights. It was an honor to be at his table with his wife and four sons, and the collection of people from all across the internet he has welcomed into his circle and literal home.

- Deep (and I mean DEEP) cleaning

'After Anatevka' at Symphony Space

- 'Introverting'

-  Enjoying possibly the most overwhelming night of my entire life at Symphony Space. In an evening that felt not at all unlike my freakin' Bat Mitzvah, my close friends and colleagues came together to bring After Anatevka to musical life, in a manner I have no words to express.

- Singing with Doc!

- Loving on this: Good Earth Sweet and Spicy tea. (Holy moly Batman...hot. iced. Get it!)

- LOVING ON AND BEING LOVED ON BY TATIANA SO SO SO HARD

Writing:
- Submitting my manuscript!
- Completing the editorial process on my first novel
- The book cover victory
- Proofreading coincidence
- Seeing my novel as a novel for the very first time


Reading:
- The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon
- You are a Badass at Making Money by Jen Sincero
- Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes
- Theatre of the Oppressed by Augusto Boal
- The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood (read beautifully on Audible.com by Claire Danes, prepping for the Hulu series!)

Seeing:
- Hamilton
- The Humans 
- Yours Unfaithfully at The Mint
- Picnic and Come Back Little Sheba in rep, at the Transport Group
- Significant Other
- San Francisco Symphony at Carnegie Hall (with Lilly!)

Symphony Space: pure joy.

In My Life: Mama

Catherine Silber - my mother. 
Los Angeles, California, 1969
 
Happy Birthday Mama, my mother, inspiration and best friend. 

The Sound of Music: NEVER FORGET.

Allow me to tell you about the one singular attended performance that I will never forget.



                            . . . ready . . . ?



                                                                   . . . really?


. . . Cuz I don't think you are.



[WARNING: I’m offering this answer in numerical points to prevent you from having a stroke whilst reading.]

PICTURE IT:

1. In Seventh grade.

I went along to a

2.  middle school production

of

3. The Sound of Music

at

4. Hillel Day School

because

5. my friend Shira (yes, really), 

from

6. ballet class

was playing

7. Max Detweiller…

And Five seconds after the curtain went up I realized the entire production was…

8.    …in Hebrew.

It was also happened to be

9. Groundhog Day.





 . . . Scene.