Myra Shoub
I have hesitated writing down these memories for two reasons; (1) after over 28 years I could never capture all the memories I have of my Midgie and (2) many of my best stories begin with the words “don’t tell anyone in West Orange…” .. But I was from outside the West Orange community and safe. Not only did we share diabetes and a Jewish life different than the one in which we had grown but we became soul sisters. We bitched about life and a disease tearing both of us apart a piece at a time. Every few months one of us would fall apart with each other and declare a “pity party”. We would cry and rail at the unfairness of it all for a few hours, getting it out. Afterward we would stuff it all back in the hidden places and make a lunch date or a doctor appointment together. You might have seen us in the aftermath sharing the lunch, shopping or coming back from an appointment in New York - laughing at the names of porno movies on the old 42nd Street and making up new ones - or sharing goofy kid or absurd Kushner stories (lashon hora and all). We held each other up as a safety net and soldiered on laughing and crying. I traveled all the way up to a hospital in the city for 5 minutes to change her pump site and bring her a 6 pack of diet coke. Then she unceremoniously kicked me out of her room. She once declared me not worth the money after speeding to my house and getting a $150 ticket to keep me company while I was recuperating from one of my surgeries. Then she, Nancy Caplan and I climbed on my sleeper couch and watched a chick flick. I so miss my sister from another mother.
Now that she is truly gone I will break a promise and share one of my favorite and on-going memories, the quintessential “don’t tell anyone from West Orange” story. Even from Olam ha’baah she is disapproving. I can feel it.
I spent a lot of time in bed with Midge., No, not like that… Even though it was truly innocent she was horribly afraid that if anyone from West Orange found out there would be plenty of lashon hara and scandal. When she couldn’t get up or out of the house I would run (or limp) upstairs and plop onto David’s side of the bed. There we hatched nefarious plots, planned synagogue programs and bnai mitzvot, trips, our joint doctor appointments and lunch dates. We shared secrets, read books and watched daytime TV (rather Midge watched soap operas and I bitched because I hated soap operas). She introduced me to Law and Order and CSI. I recuperated there in her company, she recuperated there in my company. There I harangued her about her procrastination and denial about seeing the doctor and made her doctor appointments myself. As soon as I left she cancelled them or later conveniently forgot to go. I yelled and she once didn’t talk to me for 3 months. She shared her great misgivings about my then husband way before I did. I was angry, so I got up and flounced out of the house. Needless to say, time proved her correct in her assessment of his character.
When I was preparing to leave New Jersey to return to Chicago she bought me a new electric blanket. Ostensibly this blanket was to keep me warm in the colder Illinois winters. Really, it was for me to climb under, call or skype her, to continue the ongoing conversation from afar. The warmth was emotional and highly symbolic.
One of the first things I did after Yoni called me that October afternoon, was to hurry home and to hysterically search for the blanket. I put it on the bed and climbed under it. Never mind the temperature was in the 70’s. During the last month, from under the blanket, I have spent many sleepless nights and hours of dream time with my images of Midge. It is from the vantage point of under the blanket I decided to share this story from among all of our shared stories. Now, at 5 a.m. on this cold November morning, I am going back to my blanket , relieved to have finally spilled our one “secret” sister story.
I have hesitated writing down these memories for two reasons; (1) after over 28 years I could never capture all the memories I have of my Midgie and (2) many of my best stories begin with the words “don’t tell anyone in West Orange…” .. But I was from outside the West Orange community and safe. Not only did we share diabetes and a Jewish life different than the one in which we had grown but we became soul sisters. We bitched about life and a disease tearing both of us apart a piece at a time. Every few months one of us would fall apart with each other and declare a “pity party”. We would cry and rail at the unfairness of it all for a few hours, getting it out. Afterward we would stuff it all back in the hidden places and make a lunch date or a doctor appointment together. You might have seen us in the aftermath sharing the lunch, shopping or coming back from an appointment in New York - laughing at the names of porno movies on the old 42nd Street and making up new ones - or sharing goofy kid or absurd Kushner stories (lashon hora and all). We held each other up as a safety net and soldiered on laughing and crying. I traveled all the way up to a hospital in the city for 5 minutes to change her pump site and bring her a 6 pack of diet coke. Then she unceremoniously kicked me out of her room. She once declared me not worth the money after speeding to my house and getting a $150 ticket to keep me company while I was recuperating from one of my surgeries. Then she, Nancy Caplan and I climbed on my sleeper couch and watched a chick flick. I so miss my sister from another mother.
Now that she is truly gone I will break a promise and share one of my favorite and on-going memories, the quintessential “don’t tell anyone from West Orange” story. Even from Olam ha’baah she is disapproving. I can feel it.
I spent a lot of time in bed with Midge., No, not like that… Even though it was truly innocent she was horribly afraid that if anyone from West Orange found out there would be plenty of lashon hara and scandal. When she couldn’t get up or out of the house I would run (or limp) upstairs and plop onto David’s side of the bed. There we hatched nefarious plots, planned synagogue programs and bnai mitzvot, trips, our joint doctor appointments and lunch dates. We shared secrets, read books and watched daytime TV (rather Midge watched soap operas and I bitched because I hated soap operas). She introduced me to Law and Order and CSI. I recuperated there in her company, she recuperated there in my company. There I harangued her about her procrastination and denial about seeing the doctor and made her doctor appointments myself. As soon as I left she cancelled them or later conveniently forgot to go. I yelled and she once didn’t talk to me for 3 months. She shared her great misgivings about my then husband way before I did. I was angry, so I got up and flounced out of the house. Needless to say, time proved her correct in her assessment of his character.
When I was preparing to leave New Jersey to return to Chicago she bought me a new electric blanket. Ostensibly this blanket was to keep me warm in the colder Illinois winters. Really, it was for me to climb under, call or skype her, to continue the ongoing conversation from afar. The warmth was emotional and highly symbolic.
One of the first things I did after Yoni called me that October afternoon, was to hurry home and to hysterically search for the blanket. I put it on the bed and climbed under it. Never mind the temperature was in the 70’s. During the last month, from under the blanket, I have spent many sleepless nights and hours of dream time with my images of Midge. It is from the vantage point of under the blanket I decided to share this story from among all of our shared stories. Now, at 5 a.m. on this cold November morning, I am going back to my blanket , relieved to have finally spilled our one “secret” sister story.