An Ordinary Day

I had an uneventful weekend. My husband and I watched the Raiders beat the Broncos, and it’s about bloody time. I spoke by phone with my two older children, who will be home for Thanksgiving. My daughter has a temporary job at iTunes and we hope it will evolve into something permanent. She recently graduated from college and has had a hard time finding work in her chosen field in this recession. Her brother has one more year of college to go. So far we have managed to pay for his expenses. Scholarship money makes a huge difference. We hope to send our youngest to the college of his choice next year.

I phoned my friends Mr. and Mrs. C. in Chicago. I call them every week. Their daughter was a good friend of mine who died in a car accident a couple of years ago. Mr. and Mrs. C., now in their 80s, had three children, all of whom died abruptly, without having married or producing grandchildren. The holidays are hard for them. I try to talk them into flying out to California to spend Thanksgiving with us, but Mr. C. is in one of his moods so I don’t think they will come. After I hung up, I thought about my three lovely children, all well, all following their heart’s desires.

After the football game, I went to the grocery store to buy some fresh broccoli. While I was there, I picked up a couple of gallons of orange juice and some graham crackers for E., who goes to my synagogue. She lost her husband last Wednesday. He fought valiantly against Hepatitis C for many years and was waiting for a liver transplant when his body rebelled and refused to obey his heart. E. has three children, age 16, 14, and 8. The rabbi sent an email on Friday saying to bring the family food. So I brought juice and graham crackers. A hug. Kind words. The 14-year-old has been in his bedroom playing his drum set for two days. I don’t know this family that well; but I know they have a good support system. As I drove away, I thought of my husband, who works hard to keep his diabetes and high blood pressure under control. We pay a fortune for his visits to a half a dozen doctors and for his pharmacopoeia of medications. He lived to raise all our children. He exercises regularly and is usually strict about what he eats. Hopefully, as long as he doesn’t get hit by a bus, he’ll be with me well into old age.

I called my friend K., who was diagnosed with breast cancer in August, to make a date to have dinner together. She is in good spirits. She had a lumpectomy in October. The margins were clear. But the cancer has moved into her bones. The doctor says she can control this kind of cancer for many years on medication. She is optimistic, has made extreme lifestyle changes, and believes her positive attitude will make a difference for her. I am scheduled for my annual mammogram in January; so far, so good for me.

Checking email, I discovered a message from my friend J. He and his wife of 30 years split up in July. We used to do a lot of things together as couples and I miss that. Although he is relieved to have finally ended an unhappy marriage, he is dreading the holidays. His children will spend Thanksgiving with his ex. He is coming to our house. He promises to bake apple pie. He makes a superb pie crust. My mouth waters just thinking about it. My husband is also an excellent cook and he will be the turkey maestro. We have been together over 30 years. Unlike J. and his ex, we are still good together. We sometimes cheer for different football teams, but we both jumped up and down with glee when the Raiders trounced the Broncos. He knows how to make a plain middle-aged lady feel sexy. We laugh together like idiots often and indiscriminately. Now I sound like we’re Ozzie and Harriet. Sorry.

I did the laundry. Cooked dinner. We ate in front of the TV because the Colts were playing the Chargers. That game went down to the wire. I love both of those teams so I just about needed anti-psychotic medication by the time that game ended.

Before I went to bed, I photocopied, signed, addressed, and sealed my Freedom Writers letters for Amnesty International. I don’t read the letters anymore because the stories of what these people have suffered are so horrific that they pursue me like a wolf intending to devour my heart. The rape. The torture. Death. Loss of family. Uncertainty about those disappeared. The gruesome details keep me awake at night, struggling with undefined panic. On my desk I keep a post-it that says “Fessahaye Joshua Yohannes of Eritrea, I remember you.” Yohannes was a featured prisoner of conscience in the Freedom Writers a couple of years ago. A journalist who taught clowning skills to children, Yohannes was arrested and murdered in an Eritrean prison for writing his opinion, which was disapproved of by his government. If I lived in Eritrea, I might have met the same fate.

This morning, before sitting down at my computer, I went for my habitual walk. Every day. Half an hour. I walk through an oak forest up behind a lake. The trees this time of year glow gold and amber as if lit from within. The view at the zenith of my walk takes my breath away, every single time. I am lucky to live close to nature.

Except for witnessing the Raiders win a football game, nothing extraordinary, unusual, life-changing, or remarkable happened to me in the last 36 hours. I did not escape from a war-torn country six inches ahead of a death squad. I was not tortured, raped, imprisoned, or placed under house arrest for expressing my beliefs or practicing my religion. I did not lose the love of my life in a car crash. My children are well and following their dreams. My husband and I have secure jobs. We have food in our refrigerator and clean laundry in our closets. We have not lost our house (yet) in this recession. We plan to spend our Thanksgiving in the company of friends, our children, good cheer, laughter, music, and much too much food.

I am grateful for the peace, the blessing, and the order of an ordinary day. I appreciate it for the sake of those others, elsewhere, whose pain flickers in the corners and shadows of my consciousness, who wish for nothing other than my mundane 36 hours. I owe it to them to remember to be grateful. And I wish for you, Dear Reader, a ho-hum ordinary day and a simple Thanksgiving, among family and friends, with all the trimmings.