Sometimes you don't get a dose of a reality check, you get a hammer full.  After my last post RE: my back pain, i received this comment:

I can identify with your mind and body issues. Don't give up
the fight! I' m not. Your 84 year old grandma Rita 

My grandmother, Rita, recently went in for a relatively safe operation, and. long story short, things went terribly awry.  Rita fought for her life the past month and went from "we hope she gets some oxygen in her blood" to "we hope she starts breathing on her own" to "rehabbing her as she walks the halls of the hospital."  This is not one of those "fight for your life" lead-ins to some tv story, this was real, and she soldiered through it.  It was, hope-building, incredibly emotional, and unbelievably inspiring.

For whatever reason (i have long since given up trying to control my first impulses) i thought that the post was a poignant joke from my brother.  Considering that my grandmother isn't really a "blog follower" and is working on regaining her fine motor skills, i don't think it was that unreasonable to think it wasn't actually her typing in to my blog.

I was wrong.  My mother, who has been steadfast at my grandmother's side and amazingly supportive, read the blog post to my grams, who dictated her response.  When i realized this, the enormity of the comment started to sink in.  She is in the middle of doing the seriously difficult walking of the walk in terms of committing to her life, and in deference to my grandma, i'm making a new blog rule.

If you are currently or have just finished fighting for your life, you get a top 5 list about you.  No questions asked.  You have to appreciate the things in life that are real.

Grams--these are for you.  Enjoy.


Top Five Grandma Rita Moments/Traits

1.  When i was a boy, i went to visit my grams in New York City -- where she has lived as long as I have known her.  I'm not sure if it was my first trip to NYC, but it was certainly one of them.  Two highlights of the trip included A) my Gram and her best friend taking me to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.  Not only had i not been on a ton of boats up to that point, but i still remember the sunny day, the smell of the water, and adventure of seeing that enormous lady o liberty.  I remember it as a wonderful day with my grandmother.  Simple and beautiful.  B) And i may be mixing young Matt NYC stories, but we went to a relatives birthday party at a fancy schmancy NYC restaurant that turned out to be kind of a family reunion.  Being little, i remember it as being a lot of older people who knew me, who i didn't know. What i DO remember is that i ended up with a crapload of helium filled balloons.  Like, a lot of them.  And we then proceeded to take a city bus back to my gram's place.  It was an ordeal.  A hilarious ordeal.

2.  Gram.  I know you're going to get to read this.  Please remember that at least one of these had to poke fun at you.   Here it comes.   One Hannukah, again, young Matt and brother, we received presents (as we always did) from grams.  As per tradition, we held off opening said presents until the holiday was in full swing.  Most years, gram went to Macy's and got my dad, my brother, and I all similar but different sweaters.  They were always tasteful and I didn't even need to be forced to wear them :)  This year, however, when my brother and I opened our gifts, what we received could only be described as, well, leather purses.  They were smallish rectangle purses of black leather that were longer than they were wide.  The leather tassels and one long arm strap really ruled out the other interpretations of what these bags might be.  Murses?  We hesitated, my mother's brother also has two kids, both girls, who are approximately the same ages as my brother and i, so we thought it was totally possible that the presents got switched when mailing.  I remember we made my mother call, "Hi mom . . . so what did you get the boys for Hannukah this year (she asking respectfully yet probing).  Handbags.  Ah ha.  All the rage in NYC?  Awesome.  thanks mom.  love you. byebye."

While man purses, murses.  may have been all the rage in NYC, in Western MA in the late 80s, that was still the kinda thing that could get your ass kicked.  But to be honest, the laughter that the whole family got from those purses made them one of the best gifts ever.

3. My grandmother gives it to me straight.  Always.  While this can be a difficult trait for many people, I love it.  When something sucks, she says it sucks.  When she is touched, you always know its genuine.  I feel that people generally present you with their own flavor of the truth, the unfortunate side-effect being that when things (let's say, aging, for example) start to transpire in a less rosy reality--i find myself caught off-guard.  I have never had that problem with my grandmother.  She tells me how it feels and while accepting the reality, she doesn't deny the experience of it.  Much like her comment on my blog, she keeps me grounded, prepared, without feeling sorry for myself.

4.  My grandmother is an incredible sculptor.  Over the past several years she has begun making figurines, about 10 inches tall out of clay.  There are academics, weightlifters, one with a dog, a couple -- she's done it all.  They are organic and they capture the essence of a person.  Her big showing will be at my brother's wedding in two weeks.  She has made all the centerpieces!!!  (i often picture my brother cracking the whip, pushing grandma to churn out more and more centerpieces.)  One of the themes of the wedding revolves around birds, and she has made clay bird centerpieces.  This is, hands down, her most refined and professional work to date.   They are incredible (i can't reveal a pic pre-wedding--no spoilers here).  Additionally, she has made, essentially, clay replicas of my brother and his bride to be that are their spitting images, holding hands.  This is her grand opening.  Her work will be featured prominently, and i know we will be thinking of her a lot.

5.  When i was just starting out living in NYC post college, i was unemployed and looking for a job for a number of months.  Not fun.  My grandma invited me to lunch in midtown and i accepted.   We went to a bar that had a side act that did an "Ol Blue Eyes" show.  The bar was worn, like it had been around, but classy enough that you thought it could be an after hours joint for movie stars.  The bartender comped our meals.  I was Rita Wortman's grandson, and in this bar, that definitely meant something.  And for a moment, i was pulled into my grandmother's world.  At 84 she still works (arranging buses of people wanting to come visit the city) so as not to get bored, and in this world of restaurants and acting -- Rita is a force.  Everyone treated her with the utmost respect and you could tell she had connections to everyone.  I was super proud, out of the misery of the job search, to be treated like a king, cause i was Rita's grandson.

I still am super proud.

As my profile on the right says, I was a dance major in college. (i actually double majored in psychology and dance, but people tend to fixate more on the dance part even though, or perhaps because,  i'm currently a psychologist.)  This is an accomplishment that I am both immensely proud of and that has affected my world view significantly.  Most centrally (and especially in that it is the theme of this post), the Wesleyan dance program instilled in me the idea of a mind/body connection. 

There are a number of different ways to consider one's own body.  These days "judgmentally" is probably the number one way (sadly).  But, just for example's sake, let's take Judaism.  The Jews say that your body is borrowed, on loan to you until your death.  That's why tattoos are (only by the orthodox standards) considered a no-no (you'll be fine, Amare [and welcome to the tribe]).  Since your body is not yours to begin with, it follows that you shouldn't go permanently marking it up at your whimsy.  In this definition, what makes you you, is your essence, or spirit.  A non-tangible collection of your personality, memories, etc. etc. etc.

And for me, that simply doesn't work.  A dancer is trained to understand that your physicality is optimally in direct connection with what makes you you.  That you can't discount the part of oneself that we use to touch, move, relate, react--that we stare at in the mirror.  Furthermore, dancers are taught that the mind/body connection is an extremely positive thing.  When you take ownership of your body as you, you are simultaneously empowering yourself.     I believe it.  I tattooed it.  Because it, is me. 

So here is the question im now asking myself.  What do i do now, 10 years later, as my body is failing me?  My recent chronic back pain has been truly humbling.  Most horribly (and hilariously) one of the muscles in my back that i've damaged is the one i use to stop peeing (kegels anyone?).  So on top of limping around everywhere, I also need 100% concentration while peeing or i go all jackson pollock.


add my night vision issues and sprinkle in other various ailments that i'll spare you the details of, and that = a struggling mattitiyahu.   And one of the reasons this is so difficult for me is that i DO feel so connected to my body.  I have truly started questioning whether or not this mind/body thing is as effective (or beneficial) as we get older.  Unfortunately, I think i already know the answer.  The answer is that the harder it gets, the more important it is.  As my body weakens, committing to its importance and its re-strengthening has to be a priority.  Because to give up on your body, is to give up on yourself.  And that my friends, is a very slippery slope.

As per my last post, here is my brother's response RE: assigned reading.


In terms of reading, I feel you. As you know, I have always been an avid reader. Reading has always been like a tougher, clear skin around me that I can walk around wearing and nobody knows. A wardrobe, if you will. But I read zero Victorian novels in a Victorian novel class in college (I remember writing a 13 page paper for Victorian novel class entitled: Why I didn't read this book and other post-Victorian musings), and then, when I was later depressed, I read every Victorian novel known to man and loved them like siblings.  Pressure, little bro. It makes diamonds of perfectly extraordinary coal.


My brother is a reading champion.  He'll be like, "i probably should read all those long books people talk about."  And then will tear through Moby Dick, War & Peace, Infinite Jest, and Atlas Shrugged over the next month (i have read 0 of them).  It seems that we just plain don't like being told when to read.  Even if we love to read.