The first night of Hanukkah

Hanukkah was a big deal when the boys were young. We’d decorate the house with streamers and banners and other hanging Hanukkah icons, I’d make special meals that always included potato Latkes (pancakes), we’d give the boys a gift each night, and of course we’d always light the candles – adding one more each of the eight nights until the Menorah had all the candles burning on the last night.

Early on Paul became our candle lighter. Once he was old enough he loved to strike the matches.  After the candles were lit it was time for gift giving, playing the Dreidel (spinning top) gambling game, and eating foil-wrapped chocolate Hanukkah Gelt (money).

All great memories – especially of Paul. 

 Paul's on my lap

 All on his own

That's Granny on the left

By the way, tonight's the first night of Hanukkah.

Life in the South Pacific

Our family lived in the South Pacific on a military base called Kwajalein in the Marshall Islands from January 1977 until September 1978. Paul was five and Ben two and a half when we arrived. Paul absolutely loved it there while Ben hardly has any memory of it. Paul attended Kindergarten and first grade on the island. Ben couldn’t attend the nursery school until he turned three so I took him to a baby sitter for an hour or so every day until he was old enough to go to school. He had some little friends to play with, and I learned how to hit a tennis ball.

Bob managed a software test program, and although I never had a paying job there, I did some volunteer activities. However, I used to get up early every morning and write. In fact, my Kwaj journal entries turned into an article that was published in our company magazine after our return.

We also traveled into Micronesia twice to Ponape, Yap, Palau and Guam, and we stayed in Hawaii on the way there and on the way home.

You can probably see how happy Paul was from the photos.

 Just Loving It

 Snorkeling with Dad

 Chatting with Mom

 Playing with friends on a sunset barge ride

 On the shore in Ponape

 Waiting for the plane to take us off-island

The famous black bomber jacket

It’s getting cold enough for heavy jackets especially when I go to the gym early in the morning. And I have the perfect one – Paul’s black bomber. I've written about it, I have vivid memories of Paul wearing it, and since he died I’ve worn it many times. But, I’ve never shown it off until now. I’m happy to say it still looks fresh and new – no major holes, no fading. I guess it likes hanging in my office closet, transformed from the closet Paul once used. Hopefully, it will stay in this condition for many years to come.

 How about that orange lining?

Black Bomber

Swaddled in this

black bomber jacket all weekend,

I am safe from the Big Sur chill.

It’s too large for me.

And that’s okay. It was Paul’s.

I bought it for him

years ago at American et Cie on La Brea

before he went crazy

and decided to leave us

way before his time.

I like how it snuggles me,

like he’s in there too giving me a hug.

It’s the only piece

of his clothing I have left.

I’ve given away the rest:

his favorite plaid shirts

that smelled of sweat and smoke,

the torn jeans he salvaged

from second-hand stores,

his worn brown Doc Marten oxfords

that took him miles on his manic escapades,

and the tan suede jacket

he had me repair over and over

because he couldn’t let it go.

Like this jacket –

I’ll never let it go.

It has stains I can’t remove

and threads unraveling,

My son is gone.

But, this jacket –

try and take it from me.

Just try.

2002. One of the poems in Leaving the Hall Light On: A Mother’s Memoir of Living with Her Son’s Bipolar Disorder and Surviving His Suicide (Lucky Press LLL, 2011)

Eight hours of hand surgery at age two

Day before hand surgery

Paul was born with his middle and ring fingers on both hands connected. The individual bones were there, but there was no webbing in between for the natural finger separation.

Also the day before

We immediately consulted a hand surgeon who suggested we wait until he was four years old to schedule a surgery to separate his fingers.  He said if the procedure was done too soon scar tissue could undermine the skin grafts needed to create the webs between his fingers.

However, once Paul realized he could stretch the two fingers apart a little bit – around age two – he wanted to open them. He asked for a screwdriver ("foogiver," he said) to accomplish it. Of course that frightened us and we consulted another surgeon. He agreed to do the work sooner rather than later.

So, a couple of months after Paul turned two he underwent an eight-hour surgery to open his fingers and graft skin taken from his groin area to create the webs in between. Each hand had about one hundred stitches.

Recuperating

Although Paul definitely wanted his fingers opened, the trauma of the surgery, the four hours of recovery afterward without his parents allowed at his side, and the all-enveloping casts that didn’t allow him to suck those fingers anymore took its toll. He came away from that experience with a whole list of fears related to his hospital stay that he didn't get over for quite a while. But, once the casts were off he could maneuver the now five digits on each of his hands perfectly. Also, had he not had that surgery he probably never would have learned to play the piano. 

Results just after casts are removed

Writing down the memories

It was almost an obsession of mine to get my Paul memories written down. I even wrote poems and journal entries about how I went about it. And fortunately I did write them down because a lot of that material ended up in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On.

Memory List

I’m making a memory list.

I don’t want to forget my son Paul,

So I’m writing down all the things

I can think of that were unique to him.

I keep grabbing, scratching

my bony claws at the surface of my brain

to remember, to rediscover, to reconnect with

how he looked, what he said,

what he did, how he did it.

I am continually searching for

little mannerisms that were so Paul.

I keep adding to it

I keep going back to it

I keep rereading it

I keep editing it,

so I don’t duplicate what’s already on it.

But, hey, I know a little list

of things he did or said

isn’t going to bring him back to me.

That’s the truth.

You should have seen him.

He walked so fast

like the rest of the New Yorkers.

I had to run to keep up with him.

My dad was like that too.

My dad was so in love with Paul.

I can still see them.

Paul perched on my dad’s lap

gazing into each others eyes

with proud grandpa and grandson

grins on their faces.

Maybe they are up there in heaven

taking long fast walks together.

Probably not, but

I'd like to believe that anyway.

Dad with Paul, 1973 

“I want to watch a record,” he would say

as he lay down on the tattered red and black couch

for his afternoon nap,

then much too young to differentiate

between watching and listening.

He was mesmerized by music even then,

calling out from his car seat,

“More Cat Stevens, Mommy,”

and singing “Oh, Baby, Baby, it’s a wild world”

along with the tape.

He sat in that car seat, sucking his fingers

when he wasn’t singing

and holding on to his stuffed green turtle

he loved so hard

we bought a six pack of them

so we could, in good conscience,

throw the old worn ones away.

 Paul and the turtle, at about one year

It came as no surprise he became a musician.

He started out with a sax, then piano,

then an electronic keyboard.

He taught himself how to play the guitar.

He could play almost any tune by ear

and never had my problem memorizing a piece.

By the end of his first year of piano lessons

he played “Chariots of Fire” in a recital.

His music brought him to New York

to study jazz at The New School.

He loved New York: the cold weather, 
the fast pace, the dives, the Indian food,

the subways, the walkups, the late nights,

and the freedom to come and go anytime,

anywhere he pleased.

He was a loner and he fit right in

with the other talented loners there.

That is until he got sick.

Then he became afraid of New York.

He hated the sirens, he feared

people were poisoning his cigarettes and drinks,

he thought the Mafia was out

to hurt his girlfriend,

He saw hit men lurking in doorways

and he began running away.

One year he went back and forth

between New York and Los Angeles four times.

One time he walked from the lower East side

across the George Washington bridge

into New Jersey – just

to get out of the city.

Another time he took a bus

from Los Angeles to Ensenada

and spent the night in a Denny’s

because he didn’t have enough money

to get a room.

But he couldn’t escape.

No matter how many pairs

of brown Doc Martin shoes

he wore out,

he couldn’t walk away from

what was going on in his head.

The music he heard as a little boy

became his demon.

The familiar strains of Cat Stevens

and his beloved John Lennon

became the menacing voices

that told him to kill himself.

So, now I’m making a list of memories.

It keeps growing larger and larger

as one memory begets another

and another

and another.

2001

New York City Memories with Paul

Paul, June 1992, New York City

In June 1992 I went to New York City to visit Paul. We shopped for a bookcase for his new studio apartment that he kept immaculate, we had dinner at a favorite Indian restaurant, and we went to the theater. One day it was so hot that I took a shower at his place before we went to dinner and my first meeting with his new girlfriend. This was the young woman who was his love for the rest of his life.

He was very caring of me during this visit. He stayed with me at the Union Station until it was time for me to board the train for Washington DC where I would also visit my brother and his family. Paul worried about me being in the station alone.

I am so glad we had such a special time together, and that he gave me the opportunity to take his picture. That visit took place nine months before his first manic episode.  After that there were no more opportunities.

Paul’s New York

New York City

Union Square, the lower East side

Paul’s country.

He blossomed there,

he became a musician there

while he learned about the real world

of cold fourth floor walkups,

dealers hustling on street corners

late night gigs, playing for tips in smoky bars

fast walking just to keep warm

and a first grownup love affair

with a girl named, Janet.

I went back there last month.

No, he wasn’t there.

He’s been dead

and gone almost two years now.

The reminders were everywhere.

The square where he first lived as

a freshman at the New School

in the tall skinny brick building.

66 Park Avenue where the Jazz Department

held classes and had practice rooms,

jam sessions,

and young musicians

aspiring for fame.

It was on the marble steps of that building

where he first met Janet

with the long flowing auburn hair

and piercing blue eyes

The love of his life.

No, she was his life.

Beth Israel Hospital

just around the corner.

That’s where they took him

when he first went crazy,

almost ready to graduate

getting gig after gig,

staying up all night,

playing music, drinking Scotch whiskey

hardly eating,

smoking one cigarette after another.

Ah, it was the life

until his musician friend

Bill died of a heroine overdose

and things were never the same again,

Avenue A where he lived after graduation

and recovery from his first break

now teeming with young people

bar hopping

listening to music.

It’s a happening place

made famous by the musical “Rent.”

For me it was filled with old memories

of my boy, Paul

and where his dreams

would never come true.

More birthday thoughts

Paul, age nine, showing off his ability to play the saxophone

Though Paul always showed an interest in the piano – even as a baby – his first music lessons were at school on a rented saxophone when he was nine years old. But after a year and bumpy progress in his ability to play that instrument, he asked for a synthesizer. We said we’d get him one once he learned to play our piano. So at age ten he committed to piano lessons and regular practicing and within a year we knew he had a special talent. By the time of his Bar Mitzvah when he was thirteen, he had his synthesizer and a growing interest in jazz music. The next year he enrolled in Crossroads High School and auditioned to be in its jazz ensemble. He was admitted. Paul as a jazzman never looked back.

My Jazzman

My jazzman                                        

beat it out

on the mighty eighty-eights,

played those riffs,

tapped his feet

bent his head

down to the keys,

felt those sounds

on his fingertips.

Yeah, he was a hot man

on those eighty-eights.

But all too soon

his bag grew dark.

He went down,

deep down.

My jazzman

played the blues,

lost that spark,

closed the lid.

And, yeah, you got it right,

quit the scene.

laid himself down

in that bone yard

for the big sleep.

Yeah, for the really big sleep.

(appears in Leaving the Hall Light On, Lucky Press LLC 2011)