Second birthday without celebration

Time marches inexorably on. Today would have been Karen's 38th birthday, but rather than celebrating with her - and James - I spent the day, as I have for so many others, alone and with sadness. This is a difficult time of the year for anyone who has suffered a loss like mine, but with her birthday falling during a season of joy and happiness centered on families only serves to compound the pain and sense of loss.

So today I did the thing that I thought would comfort me most, I drove out to New Jersey to visit her grave. What I forgot to take into account, however, was that our region recently received the first significant (and then some) snow fall of the winter. Normally this wouldn't have made a difference but, as anyone who has been to the cemetery or read my postings about it knows, Karen and James do not have a headstone. Rather, their grave is marked with a bronze plaque in the ground. This has made my prior visits a bit more calming by not standing among the rows and rows of granite stones, but this trip it made it impossible to locate the grave. Even with a map and directions provided by the cemetery staff, I spent about an hour plodding around Section 14 and digging repeatedly into calf-deep snow. All with no success. Instead, I sat for some time on a small stone bench.

Instead of the comfort I thought would come from visiting the cemetery, I felt sadness and a sense of failure for not being able to locate the plaque and grave. I could appreciate it wasn't necessarily a rational feeling - failure, that is - because even with a precise knowledge of the cemetery section, with so much snow it would still be exceedingly difficult to find it. But it was no less rational for me to think like this than it is for me to feel (as I do sometimes) that I in some way failed in my duties and responsibilities as a husband for not protecting her, even though there was nothing I could have done. So there I sat. In the cold. Alone.

When I got back in my car to leave, the radio station was in the middle of a block of Beatles music. Two songs came on back to back (I think, for I was in a bit of a trance), from which I found some of the sought after comfort. They were "In My Life," from Rubber Soul, followed by "The End," which closes Abbey Road. Both have lyrics that resonated very strongly in me and which were only accentuated by where I was and what I had just gone through searching for Karen's grave. Every lyric of "In My Life" struck a chord with me (pardon the pun), but most significant was:

But of all these friends and lovers
there is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

And having the moment punctuated with "The End's" haunting and iconic words, And in the end / The love you take / Is equal to the love you make, nearly brought me to tears but with a slight smile on my face. Though these songs were written decades ago, I heard the words anew. We certainly gave and received equal amounts of love, but for far far to short of time.

So as this second birthday without celebration draws to a conclusion, and I look ahead to tackle tomorrow and the tomorrows to come, I smile knowing Karen is looking over me and that we truly had something special.

Happy Birthday Karen. In my life, I love you more.

Worldwide Candle Lighting 2009

A friend of mine recently emailed me to let me know that December 13 will be the 13th annual Worldwide Candle Lighting in memory of children who have died at any age and of any cause. The event is coordinated by The Compassionate Friends, an organization formed to help provide comfort and support to bereaved parents, siblings, grandparents, and other family members through the grieving process following the death of a child.

According to the press release, candles will be lit at 7 pm local time on Sunday, December 13, so that over the 24-hour period there will be a wave of light moving across the time zones. According to the organizer's site, no service is scheduled for Brooklyn (or anywhere in New York City) but I will be lighting two candles on my own - one in James' memory and another for all children who remain in their parents' hearts - and wanted to invite anyone else to join in the event from wherever you are.

What is there to be thankful for?

A year ago I wouldn't have been able to come up with a single answer to that question.

Last Thanksgiving I was still deeply in a state of shock. Living each day like a spelunker who'd lost his flashlight: terrified, confused, and groping in the darkness that surrounded me hoping without expectation to find a way back out into the light.

While the holidays, especially those that are family-centric, continue to be difficult on me, with the passage of some time I am able nonetheless to find somethings to give thanks for today.

I am thankful that Karen didn't suffer. Someone asked me once whether I believe in God, because they felt if I did it would be natural for me to be angry at God for what happened. Without going into too much detail of my personal beliefs, I said that I do believe in something more powerful than myself and beyond human comprehension. However, I do not believe in an omnipotent or omnipresent "being" watching over the world. Nor that God had any more to do with Karen's death than with Plaxio Burress catching Eli Manning's pass in the end zone with 0:35 left in Superbowl XLII.

If I were to think about God as such a shepherding entity, however, my feelings woudld be of thanks. Obviously this is not thanks for what happened, but thanks for HOW it happened. In the past year I have considered the thousands of ways things could have been worse. Karen could have suffered from a long and painful illness, deteriorating over a long period of time. She could have been "saved" at the hospital, only to exist as a shell of the person she was before. Because none of these things happened and Karen died without pain or suffering, I am thankful

There are also countless ways the actual events played out that would have made continuing in life for me infinitely hard, not to mention effected so many others more detrimentally. If it had happened one day later, I would have been at my office and she in front of her 3rd grade class. If it had happened one week early, we would have been in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains and it would have taken an ambulance upwards of an hour to arrive. Indeed had I just gotten up 30 seconds earlier to go to the bathroom, I would forever be tormented with a myriad of additional pains, regrets, and questions. Because I was there with her at the very last moment, I am thankful.

But more importantly, I am thankful that I shared my life with Karen, albeit for far too little time, and learned what true love is. I was married once before. When that ended, I felt lost and devoid of love. In fact I recall sitting with my brother one evening at a bar and saying to him that I didn't think I would find love in this life, let alone ever remarry. As I talked, I told him that I felt I would never find true companionship, that it wasn't worth even trying and risking more heartache, and that I was accepting that I would be alone. Karen changed all this. For as much as I might have given her at the end of her life, she gave me as much if not more. Through her I experienced unconditional love and learned what it means to find one's soul-mate. She restored my confidence, taught me to trust in others, and how to live life to the fullest. It is hard for me now to find the joy in my day to day, but I know that having had it once it does exist and I can hopefully find it again. Because of all this, which came from my time with Karen, I am thankful.

I've written about many things in the past year and have tried mostly to speak about myself and my own experiences. I've tried not to sound like I'm sermonizing or lecturing others on life. On this Thanksgiving, however, I hope you'll excuse a bit of that for a moment.

We live in a fast paced world in which so much is focused on things like jobs and commercialism. There is a constant effort to look to the next thing, whether that is the next promotion, the next model of car or television, or the next task that must be completed. Because of this, some of us don't appreciate what is right before our eyes and that - as trite as it sounds - the real pleasures are in the moments between things. Those unquantifiable, almost insignificant exchanges and experiences with our loved ones and friends. Those are the things I treasure from our time together. Sure I reminisce about our trip to St. Martin, our wedding, and honeymoon to Canada, but it is the everyday, almost mundane events that stick out so much - and which I miss the most.

So as with everyday, but especially on Thanksgiving when so many are surrounded by family and the stresses that can create, I hope you are able to find happiness and pleasure in having these moments together. That you do not take for granted the loved ones in your life, are able to look past moments of argument or discord, and find joy and contentment in life. I'll be the first to admit that this is a difficult task for me to do given all that I have lost. But if I can pass along one lesson from my experience it is this: I would trade everything for the chance to have Karen back and 'suffer' those things at which I once would have been annoyed - leaving a dirty dish on the counter when the dishwasher is right there, not bothering to replace the toilet paper, or even leaving the window open when it starts to rain - because, in the end, it is her doing all this.

Through Karen I have learned that life is truly too short and that we should be thankful for what we have. Not just once a year, but everyday. I am thankful she was in my life to teach me this lesson and help me to live to the fullest. I hope in some small way, through my own pain and suffering, I'm able to pass that lesson along to others.

One year

Today marks one year since I loss my wife, Karen Rothman Fried, and son, James Alex Fried. Today I have no words of my own. Today I will let the same words by W.H. Auden that I used at her funeral last year speak my thoughts again....

* * *

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Funeral Blues
W. H. Auden

* * *

Karen Rothman Fried
12/23/71 - 11/16/08

My love eternal.

My birthday

Today is my thirty-eighth birthday. I feel, however, that I've aged so much more in the past year.

In years past, the days and weeks leading up to my birthday were often times of increased anxiety for me. Not because I was inherently sad or disappointed with turning another year older, but rather I would find myself "taking stock" (as I'm sure so many other people do) of where I was in my life, where I thought I would be, and where I felt myself going. During these years my sleep would be interrupted and I would regularly wake in the middle of the night to contemplate various aspects of my life, often (I'm sorry sad to say) with negative feelings. I had become, in some ways, accustomed to this annual occurrence and expected it.

That was until last year's birthday.

As my thirty-seventh birthday approached, I still woke up in the middle of the night. When I did, however, there was not a negative thought in my mind. Instead I looked over to the woman laying next to me and smiled...broadly. How could I not? Here was a girl I had been attracted to since high school and to whom I never imagined I could be married, let alone date. But married to her was only the start, she was to be the mother of my son and the person with whom I knew I would spend the rest of my life. Looking at her sleeping by side, as I did so many other nights, I couldn't help but consider myself the luckiest man alive. I was so happy and told Karen all of this. Her response? To hug me to her and kiss me deeply.

Last year my birthday was on a Saturday. As we did so many other days, we spent every minute of it together. First was an early brunch at Moutarde, a French bistro on Fifth Avenue, while one of our cats was being cared for at the veterinarian's office. Next we went to Broadway for a matinee of Speed the Plow and then walked over to Hell's Kitchen where we had a snack of Thai food followed by a visit to a baby store to test drive strollers. James had, in the past weeks, begun moving much more and I felt his kicks (or punches) often. Karen and I talked constantly about him and our excitement of becoming parents. After wandering around the neighborhood a little while longer, we headed to the rooftop bar at the Peninsula Hotel before finishing our evening with a fabulous dinner at Aquavit. We were all smiles, each of us feeling like we were on top of the world.



This feeling of happiness and absolute contentment on my birthday, a feeling I'd not had before, lasted a less then forty-eight hours. Joy replaced by pain. Hopes dashed. My future shattered in an instant before my eyes.

How do I celebrate my birthday this year? With tears in my eyes.

18 Heshvan 5770

According to the Hebrew calendar, Karen died on the 18th day of the month of Heshvan in the year 5769. Because the Hebrew calendar is a lunisolar calendar, the dates between it and the Gregorian (or secular) calendar do not match up from year to year. Because of this, the first yahrtzeit of her death falls on today, November 5, 2009, which corresponds to the 18 Heshvan 5770. (Technically, since a day on the Hebrew calendar runs from sundown to sundown, the yahrtzeit began at sundown on the 4th and runs until sundown on the 5th.) As is Jewish custom, last night I said kaddish, lit a candle in her and James' memory, and began a one day fast. While the latter is a custom typically reserved for the yahrtzeit of a parent, just as I have not shaved during the past year - also a custom compulsory only following the passing of a parent - I felt keeping a fast was proper for me to observe the date. In addition, fasting itself is providing me a sense of connection, grounding and focusing me on this day when my mind is awash with so many thoughts and memories - both good and bad.

Is there such a thing as coincidence anymore?

I think not. And here's two reasons why...

A couple weeks ago I went up to Boston to visit relatives and some friends from law school. While I was there I made plans to meet two other friends who live in Philadelphia but were in town for a medical conference - they're both doctors. The three of us met at a small restaurant in the south end and were seated near the open kitchen. Just after we ordered I glanced up at someone being led through the dinning room to their table - for those of you who follow my Facebook updates this might sound familiar - and immediately recognized it was a friend of mine from high-school who I haven't seen in probably a dozen years. The truly crazy thing was that she doesn't live in Boston either and was only in town for a couple days as well. She was there with her boyfriend and his sister, and the waitress sat them right next to us. We spent the rest of the evening chatting and catching up on old times. It was amazing.

Even more amazing was that her boyfriend said that he owned a wine store in northern Virginia and invited me to visit after I mentioned what my current plans are and that I would be in the area for a wedding in a few weeks. That wedding was this past weekend and the three of us meet for dinner on Monday night. Not only was it a great chance to catch up even more with her and get to know him better, but a potential business opportunity came out of the dinner that I am seriously considering.

I would have emailed her to let say I was going to be in DC anyway, but since we ran into each other in Boston it made getting together a certainty. Had we not reconnected in that random way, who knows if we would have met for dinner and who knows whether the business opportunity would have presented itself as it did. Most likely not. Things just seemed to fall into place in an odd, but positive, way.

The second thing happened last night when I went to a Learning Annex seminar about opening a restaurant. There were about a dozen people in attendance and just before the lecture began a man sitting in front of me mentioned to the presenter that he already owned a place in Park Slope. I told him I live in Park Slope and asked what the name of his restaurant was. His reply was "Cafe Bogota." I felt the blood rush from my head at this. When he asked if I knew it I said yes, stammered something about how the food was very good, but that my experience there was bad and I would talk to him about it later. Not only was the class starting so I couldn't explain it to him further, but I didn't want to cast a pall over him for the next couple hours.

At the conclusion of the class I approached him and spoke with him further. I began to explain that I was at Cafe Bogota in mid-November of last year with Karen and that she collapsed there. Before I could say anything further, he knew immediately who I was and what had happened. His partner, who joined the conversation at this time, explained that he was working there that day and recounted some of his memories. They told me how stunned and saddened the entire staff had been by what happened, and that the waiter who served us (who returned to Brazil) kept saying over and over in a shocked voice that Karen had just asked him for a pen.

The three of us spoke for a little while longer. I said that for some time I have wanted to go to the restaurant and speak with people who were there that day but have not been able to walk past Cafe Bogota let alone go inside. The understood completely, offered me their business cards and asked that I get in touch with them so we could meet to speak further. As the emotions began to overwhelm me, I shook both their hands and promised that we would get together. I left, getting to the street as the reality of what just happened hit me and the memories of November 16 flooded back.

As I did in the months that followed her death, I walked through the city trying once again to make sense of things. How could it be that in a city of over nine million people and thousands of restaurants the owners of Cafe Bogota were two of about a dozen individuals who showed up for the lecture. I believe we were supposed to meet, but that we were supposed to meet away from where Karen died so that I didn't have to reenter that place.

Just like I was supposed to be in that restaurant in Boston for many reasons, so too was I supposed be in that lecture; not to learn about how to open a restaurant (although I did get some good pieces of advices) but to meet those two gentlemen.

I don't know how my plans will eventually work out, but things have been happening to me in very odd ways during these past eleven and a half months. I wonder what is next....

Next steps

As of October 2, I am no longer working as a lawyer. This was a decision that I've been contemplating for a long time and even discussed it with Karen quite a bit. In that pre-November 16 life I decided that leaving the job wasn't a prudent idea because with the arrival of James. Karen would not be working for some time and it would therefore have been incumbent on me to support all three of us. Nevertheless, Karen supported my idea of leaving the law to pursue other options at some point down the line.

After being away from work for several months following her death, I went back to work in March. It was the right decision for me at that for many reasons and I'm glad I did it. I really enjoyed many aspects of the job and made very good friends at the office. In addition, the support I received from my firm was remarkable and so important. But even as I was doing my best get my mind back into the work I realized after a few months that I was having difficulties putting my heart into it. Soon it became apparent to me that it was time for a change lest I continue doing what I was doing and allow the quality of my work deteriorate. Therefore I thought long and hard and decided that it would be best for me to leave the job.

So what now? That has been the number one question people have - understandably - had when I've told them of my decision.

Well, first off, I do not have another job waiting for me. This flies in the face of the conventional wisdom and also presents the obvious issue of how will I be paying rent and living expenses in the near future. I have some savings which will get me by for a few months, but I am already doing a little belt tightening in anticipation of not having a pay check coming in the near future.

What I am doing is pursuing an idea I've long had: to open a wine bar with a small menu of tapas-esque items some place in or near Park Slope. It is a long way to go before I will uncork my first bottle, but I have started taking courses at the French Culinary Institute on wine and plan to take a course in restaurant management when it is next offered in January of 2010. I have also started to speak with the many people I know who are in the industry and will be seeking any opportunities to gain knowledge and experience that will assist me.

I know how challenging this is, but have tremendous support from my friends and family, as well as the confidence to embark on this. In addition, because this is something Karen and I spoke about on several occasions, I know she is supporting me. All this said, it will take much more than just positive thinking to get to where I want to be. However, having been taught in the most dramatic and painful fashion that life truly is unpredictable and short, I have to seize this moment and do what it is my heart is telling me.

The third worst day of my life

Yesterday I returned to Beth Israel Memorial Park for the first time since November 19, 2008, for the unveiling of Karen's grave marker.(For those of you not familiar with what an unveiling is, this is a Jewish tradition when a short ceremony is held between ten and twelve months after burial when the marker is first displayed; literally the marker is uncovered following a few short prayers and words of remembrance.) It was an event and a date that I knew I would be facing, but one that has created in me more anxiety and object fear than all those others that had passed already over the previous nine and a half months - such as our anniversary, Karen's birthday, James' due date, etc.

The first trip to the cemetery was for the burial. On that day, I was still very much in shock from what had happened and was doing and going wherever those around me directed. Because of this I did not have the ability, or the time, to contemplate what was happening and where I was going. Despite the fog in which I was existing when I went there after the funeral, the intense pain and utter despair that I felt while watching the coffin lower into the earth bore into me. Now I know it is one, of many, emotions and experiences that I know will never leave my mind. But because it was so sudden, I didn't have time before hand to contemplate it and just reacted while the world spun around me.

Yesterday, however, was something looming on the horizon for several months. It was something I knew was coming and had plenty of time to think about it. Time to dread its arrival, and dread it I did. I tried for the past weeks and months to live my life as normal as possible. Normalcy is something that was impossible to achieve knowing what was waiting for me. I knew I was returning to place where the scar on the earth would still be as raw as the scars in my heart and mind. As much as I sought to prepare to go back, there is really nothing that could be done. How does one prepare for what is inherently an unnatural and incorrect event? Even if it was decades later, after a long, shared life, the sight of my wife's and son's names carved indellibly into bronze and permanently affixed to the ground is something I would never be ready for. Obviously given the young ages, with so much life before them both, and so soon after we began our lives together makes such a thing exponentially harder to bear.

So the day finally arrived...

Yesterday, after precious little sleep the night before, I awoke with the immediate reality of what the day was; unlike some days when I can wake and have a few moments before the realization that Karen is gone, there was no such "grace period" on this morning. I had no appetite and craved only coffee to help push me forward. I was awash with emotions and thoughts of all sorts, so much and so disparate that I couldn't possibly begin to describe them.

The weather was perfect. Slightly overcast with the sun poking through periodically. Not too warm but also not chilly. Outside my window cyclists participating in the Transportation Alternatives New York City Century pedaled by calling out "slowing," "stopping," and "clear" as riders are taught to do whenever they participate in large road riding events. Indeed I know the routine well. Yet instead of pulling on bike shorts and a jersey to join them, I was pulling out a dark gray suit and black shirt. I know wearing black is a cliche, and Karen would likely have found the display overly morbid, but I just couldn't contemplate what to wear so black was the easiest thing to reach for at that moment.

I drove with my brother and his family to the cemetery, and being in the driver's seat lent some control to a situation over which I realize I have none. Memories of the ride the last time trickled into my mind as we drew closer. As we arrived through the cemetery's gates I felt my chest tighten and anxiety elevate perceptively. It wasn't until we pulled up at the section and saw everyone else already gathered that the full weight of the moment stuck me. I sat in the car for many minutes before mustering the strength to get out and join with everyone else around the grave.

The details of what happened next, much like those from the day of the funeral, remain shroud in my mind. What I do recall is the rabbi leading us in a touching memorial and several of Karen's friends sharing some of their personal stories. The it was time for me to remove the covering on the plaque. Having designed it, I knew what the plaque was going to look like, but as I knelt to the ground to unfasten the clothe my hands shook as overwhelming reality hit me. Seeing the design on paper only fractionally prepared me for what it would be like seeing it cast in bronze and affixed to the slab of granite. It is a beautiful but heart wrenching monument, and as I put my hand on the cold metal I felt a sense of peace come over me. Gone were the people standing around me, leaving me alone in my thoughts and memories of Karen.

I some ways the unveiling marked a kind of closure - completing part of a cycle started on November 19. Of course it change what happened, but getting through that moment revived in me a sense of strength in the knowing that I can continue to face such seemingly insurmountable events. But it also reopened some of the emotional wounds that had receded, somewhat, in the transpiring months.

Standing before the grave the feeling of absolute loss and overwhelming confusion in my life returned. I was, once more, the distraught husband and father searching desperately for meaning where there is none. As in all the days since her death, it was the strength and support of my family and friends, who literally surrounded me with their love, and nurtured me in that dark moment.

Before we left the grave, in keeping with Jewish tradition, family and friends placed a stone on the plaque. I pulled form my pocket a bag of sand from Israel and spread it over the earth in which they are buried, placed a stone on the plaque and, after spending a few more minutes in my own thoughts after everyone else left, returned to the car and drove away.

When and how often I will return to the cemetery I do not know, but that I went, faced such a powerfully painful event, and came out on the other side gives me renewed strength. Now it is time for me to go on once again, never forgetting Karen and living my life in a way that honors her memory and would make her happy. My journey continues.

* * *



Thanks to Karen's long-time friend, Michael Fishman, for the photograph.

absolute happiness

Today marks yet another a date that I've been dreading - our one year wedding anniversary. However, rather than dwell on the sadness of not celebrating it with Karen, I've been thinking about how happy we were one year ago today and how it was an occasion that I never, EVER imagined would happen until it did. I know I've told it so many times, but please indulge me repeating our story again and remembering August 17, 2008 as the absolute happiness that it was....

Karen and I first met at Packer, where we both went to middle school and upper (high) school. Our class was small - we graduated with 42 other people - everyone pretty much knew everyone else. Because of the size, the school really didn't have the cliques and social groups that most people associate with high school. However, while we all knew each other and would hang out together in social situations, there were of course people who were closer to each other and people who were mostly acquaintances. Karen and I were more of the latter toward each other and I spent most of my time admiring her from afar in a John Hughesian kind of way.

That's right. I spent much of high school imagining just being out on a date with Karen Rothman and daydreaming about her. I even took a job for in-school community service (we needed to volunteer a certain number of hours in order to graduate) managing the girls varsity basketball team because she played on it. Not only did I get to know her a little better, but managed to put myself next to her in the team picture of our senior yearbook...pretty slick, no?

The picture was about as close as I got to her during high school; never did get that date. I would have to wait eighteen years, three months, and fourteen days from our graduation on June 14, 1989, to get the chance and I didn't waste it. After reconnecting on MySpace.com and exchanging a few emails we met on September 27, 2007. When she walked into the bar that evening she look as good - no, make that better...much better - than she did when we were classmates. We had a couple drinks at The Gate where, while we goofed around throwing darts in the general vicinity of the board, I confessed my high school crush to her. Always direct with her statements, Karen said I should have made a move back then and seized the moment. Well, after a couple more drinks and change of bars, I did. While we were shooting pool in the backroom there was a lull in the game and the conversation turned in a direction that gave me an opening that, based on what she had said earlier, I wasn't about to let pass me by again. So I took her in my arms and kissed her. Right there in the bar, right there against the pool table.

That night was a dream come true. What I couldn't have imagined was that it was the beginning of the dream and not the end of it. All I had wanted in high school was to be on a date with Karen, to kiss her, to feel her in my arms. In my wildest, high school mind I could never have conceived that ten months and 22 days after that kiss I would be standing next to her and under the chuppa at the the Prospect Park Boathouse for our wedding. But there we were and she never looked more beautiful than she did that evening.

She was radiant. Tonight I have been looking back through almost all of the pictures from the day, in each she has a smile stretching from ear to ear and a sparkle in her eye. It was a perfect day. I can still remember with absolute clarity what it was like standing at the end of the aisle watching her walk down arm in arm with her parents. She had to navigate stairs draped with fabric, a floor length dress, and high-heels, but the whole time she was walking she was staring straight at me with those sparkle filled eyes. When I close my eyes now I can see that image perfectly.

As she walked toward me I couldn't help but thinking it was all a dream. How on earth did I get so lucky. How did the "it" girl from high school end up saying yes to me when I asked her to marry me at a club in New York City without even a ring to offer her? Whatever it was, I knew that it was a perfect moment and that her gaze held all the love, support, and beauty that any man could hope to have. We decided to write our own vows but didn't share them until we read them to each other in front of our friends and family. I thought I lost hers and tore my apartment apart looking for the piece of paper. Thankfully, her mother had taken both to put them in a scrapbook. Friday she returned them to me and the words Karen wrote made clear that my happiness was matched by hers. As I read them over and over again the last few days, each time I can hear her voice reading them to me as she did that day. This is what she wrote and said:

Andrew

From the day we re-met you have surrounded me with your love warmth and kindness
With you I feel completely myself
With you I feel understood, heard

Andrew, you share yourself with me without reservation.
You confide in my your joys fears and wonderings

You look and listen at the world
with clear open eyes
the eyes of wisdom

Everyone who has met me today has remarked at how calm & relaxed I appear. How can I be anything else when I know that our marriage is the most natural and organic paths our lives can take.

I am for you and you for me
My love for eternity.
Ani li dodi, v dodi li.





As part of our wedding program we used a lithograph from Andy Warhol with his quote "I wonder if it's possible to have a love affair that lasts forever." When we put it in the program, we gave our own answer for all the world to see - "we KNOW it is." I think about that often, especially because we have the print next to our bed. How could we have ever imagined that forever would be only one year, one month and twenty-one days or that the eternity Karen wrote about would come so soon and so suddenly. Even with that, I look back on August 17, 2008 and remember the happiness and joy we shared, albeit far too briefly.

Happy anniversary Karen - my eternal love, my wife forever.

Fear of Flying

I have been flying almost since I was born. In fact my first flight was back from Seoul, South Korea when I was just little more than a year old. (I don't want to brag, but I had one of the cutest passport photo ever...) Throughout my life I have flown hundreds of times to places exotic - Palau, The Maldives, Tbilisi, and Yerevan, to name a few - and many more less so - Detroit, Baltimore, New Haven, etc. For all those flights, I was never scared or worried and in fact loved the whole act of flying. I was always excited and thrilled by being so high above the ground, and trusted in the technology conveying me almost entirely.

Recently, however, that has changed.

I think the change began when Karen and I flew to St. Martin in February 2008. I wouldn't say that I was particularly afraid while in the plane, but there was a level of relief unlike I experienced in the past when we returned to terra firma . At the time I passed it off as nothing more a fluke, the excitement of being on vacation with Karen rather than any real nervousness, and said nothing to her. But when the same, but more acute feeling came over me when we flew to Montreal for our honeymoon I told her. At first I was somewhat hesitant to mention it. Not because I thought Karen would think any less of me, but because we had so many travel plans in our minds and I didn't want her to feel like we should cancel them if I was uncomfortable. When I told her how I was suddenly getting nervous flying she gently hugged me and said simply that "it was because now we have something to live for." I will never forget that moment.

In the past months, my fear has grown. At first I found it was odd, since the things in my life that gave rise to my nervousness were no longer with me. Why hadn't my thinking about flying simply returned to my previous feeling, the one guided by my aeronautics understanding and former enjoyment of being in the air. It was until a recent weekend, while talking to a friend about it, that I realized from where my new fear, or at least concern, is derived.

If the events of November 16 has taught me anything, it is that almost anything, even the most remote, far-fetched, and unbelievably unimaginable things can happen. I'm not talking about things of such infinite possibilities, like nuclear missiles metamorphosing into sperm whales and bowls of petunias, but about those things of natural life that you just can't - or don't want to - imagine happening, happening.

For so much of my life I have taken for granted the efficacy and functionality of the "machine" known as the human body. Sure, I've experienced deaths and had even heard those tragic stories of people loosing loved ones prematurely and horrifically. But I'd always convinced myself that, just as I never expect to win the MegaMillions lottery, so too did I never imagine that I would ever have the most negative odds fall against me. The human body, as far as I was concerned, was a complex, mechanical and biological machine, that we expect to function as expected until during its normal time of existence. Despite all my prior experiences and knowledge of illness and bodily frailty, I continued to believe and live that way. That one's body could so suddenly and unexpectedly cease its function shocked me to my core.

That shock and new realization, I see now, transferred to airplanes. I now find myself sitting in my seat with an acute feeling that in a blink of an eye something unforeseen and unimaginable could happen; and there is nothing I or anyone else could do, just as there wasn't anything that could have been done for Karen when the paramedics arrived. The possibility of such a catastrophic system failure, for lack of a better description, is something that I used to only imagine could happen in fiction.

It also isn't only airplanes I envision failing, but other people as well. I find myself looking at individuals - whether on the subway, at a bar, on the street, etc. - with the horribly morbid thought of what could happen to them in an instant. It is a feeling that alternates between that and a feeling of complete injustice that nothing does happen to them but it did to Karen and me.

What it all comes back to is that, despite all my efforts to remember the 14 months we had together and focus as hard as I can on the happiness that was in Karen's eyes while we had that lunch together, the images of what happened replay uncontrollably through my mind more times each day than I can count. It is an unending loop of my fear, helplessness, and loneliness.

I am trying to pause the cycle of imagery. Not to forget it, as if that were even a possibility, but to create a space between the replays in which I can continue the process of constructing a new life from the shards of what once was. And I do find moments of happiness and laughter, but never far away are those memories. Much like now, when I sit in seat 16B of a Boeing 737 I can't seem to shake the fear of the improbable happening despite my rational understanding of the thousands of flights that take off, travel between destinations, and land without incident.

Will I eventually loose my new found fear of flying? I don't know, but it is yet another thing, like everything else from this past seven (almost eight) months, that I will have to learn to incorporate and process into my life as I move forward.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I've spoken about Emerson's essay Experience, and specifically this section, to several people over the past months. Before November 16, I think I'd only read excerpts of his work in high school English class and never do I think I came across this essay - or at least I don't recall reading it if it was assigned. I found myself re-reading it last night and was once again drawn to this passage.

* * *

The only thing grief has taught me, is to know how shallow it is. That, like all the rest, plays about the surface, and never introduces me into the reality, for contact with which, we would even pay the costly price of sons and lovers. Was it Boscovich who found out that bodies never come in contact? Well, souls, never touch their objects. An unnavigable sea washes silent waves between us and the things we aim at and converse with. Grief too will make us idealists. In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to have lost a beautiful estate - no more. I cannot get it nearer to me. If to-morrow I should be informed of the bankruptcy of my principal debtors, the loss of my property would be a great inconvenience to me, perhaps, for many years; but it would leave me as it found me - neither better nor worse. So is it with this calamity: it does not touch me: something which I fancied was a part of me, which could be torn away without tearing me, nor enlarged without enriching me, falls from me, and leaves no scar. It was caducous. I grieve that grief can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into the real nature. The Indian who was laid under a curse, that the wind should not blow him, nor water flow to him, nor fire burn him, is a type of us all. The dearest events are summer-rain, and we the Para coats that shed every drop. Nothing is left us now but death. We look to that with a grim satisfaction, saying, there at last is reality that will not dodge us.

Father's Day

I knew this day was coming, just as so many others I'm dreading. I've tried many times in the last day or so to write something to share my memories about Karen getting pregnant, but every time I do the words seem too melodramatic and cliched. Instead my thoughts keep turning to how I'm feeling now on this day.

First of all, until I met Karen I never really envisioned myself as a father. I thought it was something I wanted, but never really was able to see myself as being one.

When Karen got pregnant all that changed. Experiencing it with her and watching James grow brought a joy to my day I'd never imagined. The first time I went with her to the doctor for a sonogram was amazing. It was the visit to the doctor when we found out that he was a he. As we watched the monitor, James moved around and then, before our eyes, opened his mouth and let out a big yawn. I held onto Karen and kissed her with tears in my eyes.

To say I was looking forward to being James' father is an understatement. I was more excited for it than anything, except for being married to Karen, in my life. While I never held James in life, I felt him and his presence. Not just from the sonograms or from what Karen was saying she was feeling, but in the weeks before her death I was starting to feel him. Not just gentle, what was that kind of feeling on Karen's stomach, but several forceful and unmistakable movements. In fact on one occasion, as we were sitting on the sofa, I had my hand on her belly and felt him press against my hand with such strength that it was as if he was saying hello to me. I'd never felt anything like that in my life and it brought such joy and pride to me. I could think of nothing more than being his father and raising him with Karen.

I cradled James in my arms once but, as many of you know already, tragically I never held him in life. It is something I think about almost as often as I do about loosing Karen. Just as I ask over and over again why Karen was taken from me, I ask why was James never given a chance? Why would I never see him grow and be a father to him in life? Never seeing the boy, teen, man and, perhaps eventually, father he would become?

But I was his father. I am his father. This Father's Day should have been full of joy for me, but it isn't. I am James' father and will always be, but cannot find or even imagine any of the happiness that should be there. This is yet another day that all I can contemplate is getting through it and, like all the others, I will because it is what I need to do for him, for her, and for me.

A fearful thing to love

Today during Shabbat services I was reading some of the poems in the Aleinu and Mourner's Kaddish section of our Mishkan T'filah. I thought I'd read them all over the past seven months of going to services, but guess I missed this one by Chaim Stern. It really touched something in me:

It is a fearful thing to love
what death can touch.

A fearful thing to love,
hope, dream: to be --
to be, and oh! to lose.

A thing for fools this, and
a holy thing,
a holy thing to love.

For
your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings a painful joy.
'Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing,
to love
what death has touched.

The hits that hit from outta nowhere

In the past, I've called it ambush grief: those moments of memory and sadness that come upon you when you're not expecting it. Lately I've been thinking about the various significant dates I've yet to cross - our one year wedding anniversary being the biggest one after the obvious - but as much as I can prepare for those, it is the little moments that surprise me out of nowhere that seem hardest. Perhaps this is specifically because they're occurrence comes as a surprise.

Halloween is still months away, but this evening my mind turned to it. It was getting late and I was watching a movie, when I decided to make myself a snack. I pulled a new bag of edamame, which has become my movie watching snack of choice, from the freezer. It was all so normal and natural, but when I went to open the bag things changed. I opened the drawer and reached for the handle of what I thought was the scissors I paused. Instead of the scissors I was holding the pumpkin carving tool we bought at Pathmark off of 2nd avenue on the night of October 30, 2008.

Karen, as I'm sure most if not all teachers, was having an Halloween party the next day and we were picking up a few last minute supplies. Two of which were pumpkins to be carved into Jack-o-Lanterns. The carving tool was almost an afterthought of a purchase, but having tried in the past to carve pumpkins with regular knifes I suggested we invest in one. It was, in my opinion, well worth it. That night, while Karen rested and worked on her lesson plan for the abbreviated day, I carved the two pumpkins into the best Jack-o-Lanterns I could. Then, after the carving was done, I rinsed, roasted, and salted the seeds so that she could take them to class and let the kids try them.

The roasting, however, took longer than I thought and by the time I was done Karen had already gone off to bed. I tried to pack everything up as best I could and then joined her. The next morning, as we had been doing nearly every morning, I walked with her to school, the two of us carrying the pumpkins, food, and decorations for the party. I only heard later from parents about how she greeted the class at the door that morning wearing her Mardi Gras mask and explaining to them that she was Karen's European cousin Katarina, in town to cover the class.

While I never saw her playing that role, I can see it clearly in my mind. Her joie de vivre matched only by her theatrics and character acting, which came across as effortlessly as her students own playful nature. I picture her standing at the door, greeting each costumed student in her lilting faux-French-accented English, joyously describing the little town in, perhaps southern France where she came from and how excited she was to meet Karen's class. I think back on that and on the things I knew about her as a teacher and think, she is the kind of teacher I would have loved. She loved her class and loved teaching. For her it was a chance to leave the adult world for the day and be a kid again. That isn't to say she didn't take her responsibilities seriously, she did almost to a fault. She recognized the importance of her job and her effect on the students, but she also knew that kids needed to be kids and made sure they HAD FUN even while they were learning.

I know that Karen would have been an amazing mother. She positively radiated it. As I stood in the kitchen this evening, bag of frozen edamame on the counter and pumpkin cutting tool in my hand, I knew that James had a mother that would have done anything for him. She would have made sure he grew up surround by unconditional love, with the encouragement to be whatever he wanted to be, and most of all with the encouragement to experience the wonders of the world as she did and beyond.

It is strange how a simple $2.39 piece of plastic and metal from a supermarket can become such a power item and evoke so many feelings. Yet that is how the memories flow, triggered by the seemingly ordinary or routine things and instances.

Memories of the day until...

Shortly after I spoke about Karen and James at the Havdalah service during the Israel ride, one of the other participants approached me to offer his condolences. He also asked me how often I think about Karen. It was, truth be told, an odd question to hear. Rather than say anything about the question, I simply replied: "When I wake up in the morning, Karen is the first thing to cross my mind. Later, when I am laying in bed waiting for sleep to come, she is the last thought that I have. Between those two moments, however, she is in my constant and continued thoughts, as is James." It is not about how often I think about her and him, but how often I don't.

Lately, I (and perhaps others) have noticed that my posts have had a bleakness to them and maybe the impression has been given that the thoughts I have of Karen are in some way sad ones and that in turn it may be these sad thoughts that contribute to my feeling. Quite the contrary. My thoughts tend to be of the wonderful things during our all to brief time together. I don't talk necessarily about specifics because some are private, personal treasures I keep for myself while many others are of such seemingly ordinary and nondescript moments in time that to share them would be trite but for the circumstances as they are now. These moments, which I think about constantly, are things like driving to Long Island, New Jersey, or the Adirondacks with Karen in the passenger seat, shoes off and feet on the dash board; walking to PS 321 in the morning; watching her prepare to break in pool and then the graceful follow-through where she extends the cue upward part ballerina, part hustler; or the calm expression on her face and glowing skin after finishing a Yoga class. These are just a small glimpse of the hundreds, if not thousands, of beautiful memories that fill my mind between my waking thought of her and moment before I drift off to sleep.

In the last couple of days, however, I have been thinking a lot about the day she died. Unlike how I've previously been thinking about that day, these thoughts have been about everything we did before that horrible moment. All the fun and love we shared in those final hours. Of course there was no way to know (at least not cognitively) these would be our last moments together, but even without the events later in the day they are some of the happiest I can recall.

As I written about before, the day started with brunch at my mother's apartment. As we were getting ready to go downstairs (my mother lives in the same apartment building as we did) I noticed Karen was putting on a dress and her high boots and mentioned to her that it was just a casual brunch with my family and that after we were just going to run some errands. Her response was classic Karen. She didn't care how the other mothers and expectant mothers in Park Slope dressed on a Sunday, she was going to dress in style. Her style. With that we were off to brunch.

Brunch was really special. At the time, my brother and his family was living with my mother while their new house was being renovated. Because of this, Karen and I saw them and my mom quite often. But on this particular day my father and step-mother had come from the upper west side for brunch. I don't know what the occasion was, or if there even was one, but when we walked in my entire family was there. Karen and I easily slid into the conversation and commotion that, pleasantly, marks meals and gatherings in my family. It was a traditional New York Jewish brunch with bagels, lox, herring, etc. Karen and I spent at least an hour or two basking and enjoying the time. Eventually, however, we announced we were going to leave to take a walk and run some errands.

I can remember nearly ever step and word of conversation we had. From our apartment we walked down Carroll Street and turned right on Seventh Avenue. At Union Street we made a left so that we could pass by the Park Slope Yoga studio and pick up a schedule of classes. Our thought was to run our errand and be back in time for a class before going out for my birthday dinner with my family.

When we got to Sixth Avenue we turned right. We walked and talked, passing PS 282 where I accompanied Karen last year to watch a coral concert being performed by several of her students. Then we stood at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and St. Marks Place looking at the building on the corner. The second floor of which had at some point been converted into a commercial space that stood vacant. We debated first what kind of business we, if we could, would open in the space and then whether the window were true bay windows or some other architectural style. Our conclusion was that no, the windows weren't bay windows and a funky coffee shop would be a fitting business (this despite a cafe of sorts being on the first floor).

Our destination was Pintchik Hardware store on Bergen Street and Flatbush Avenue where we were going to look at window treatments and paint colors for the renovation of Karen's apartment at 75 Henry Street. It had been our intention to sell it and find a two bedroom apartment in Park Slope, but the market being what it was (and is) decided it would be more prudent to renovate it and live there for a couple years until the market rebounded.

Pintchik was crowded, as you would expect on a weekend. We spent a little time looking at paint but then while I was ordering some samples for my brother, Karen went to the window treatment section. She returned a few minutes later to tell me there wasn't much of a selection and she found only one that she liked. She wouldn't tell me which one it was, but rather asked which one I liked. I wandered through looking at each one, settling on a Roman-esque cotton blind. It was the same one that she picked. That was how we were together. Without even trying, we almost always picked the same things. It wasn't that we selected thinking what the other one would like or want, but rather it just happened organically. The things I liked were the things she liked and vice-a-versa. This would happen at restaurants, stores, and many other times when there were choices to be made; it was quite uncanny.

Done with that errand, we walked down Bergen Street toward Fifth Avenue. Some how fittingly, next door to Babeland (an adult store) is Bump, a materinity clothing boutique. As most people who knew Karen know, she wasn't one to take herself shopping so as we passed the store I suggested we stop in and see if there was anything she liked. She had only moments earlier mentioned how much she preferred wearing dresses now that her belly had gotten so big with James. As first when we went inside she took a cursory turn through the racks, chatting away to me the whole time, and said she found nothing. However, on a second, slower sweep of the store she started finding things, and things, and more things. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the designated dude-chair while Karen tried on dress after dress, all the while having the saleswoman/owner of the store find different sizes and styles. She was in rare form, truly enjoying shopping and getting a kick out of each new dress she put in the we'll-take-it pile. All in all we bought six dresses that day.

Dresses in hand, we wandered along Fifth Avenue. As I mentioned, we had dinner plans for the evening but we were both feeling a bit hungry so when when we walked by Bogota Bistro we decided to go in for a bite. We'd looked at the menu several times before but always chose to go someplace else, each time saying that next time we would try it. Well this was next time.

We ordered a couple light dishes to share: a pair of empanadas and bowl of tortilla soup. Both were amazing. The empanadas were served with a creamy garlic sauce and spicy pico de gallo, which we both ate with impunity. I had a Colombian beer, Karen water only. Toward the end of the meal I took a picture with my iPhone of the beer and sent it to a friend who moved from Colombia to Queens when he was young. In my message I made a comment about sitting and enjoying such amazing Colombian cuisine and beer without ever leaving Brooklyn.

I was all smiles. Karen was absolutely glowing. We sat making small talk, staring at each other, stealing a kiss or two across the table and holding hands.

The bill came and everything changed.

Regardless of everything tragic and painful that happened from that point forward, all the memories and emotions leading up to that moment continues to fill my heart with absolute joy and unparalleled love.

Some days things just get worse

This weekend was a tough one for me. The six month mark (I'm loathe to call it an anniversary) took a toll on my on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, when I tried to get some work done, I entered into a new world of panic attack that I never before knew. First I became stressed over the work I had to do and all that went along with it. As a relief, or so I thought, I decided to take a walk in Prospect Park.

After a few minutes of sitting on Karen's bench I continued along the path until I got to the baseball fields. There I ran into my brother and nieces who were finishing/starting their games. For a little while my anxieties subsided, but then as I began home a new and intense level of panic began flooding over me. At first I thought I was getting chilled since it was a bit cold as the sun set, but as it increased I realized that the shivering, numbness, and near paranoia that was taking hold of me was something altogether different.

As soon as I got home I took a long, hot shower. Still feeling chilled I put on thermal underwear - top and bottom - and sweatpants and shirt. Capped off with wool socks. Feeling slightly warmer, and a little like a neurotic Michelin Man, I climbed into bed at 8:30 and was asleep almost immediately. It wasn't the most restful night sleep I've had, but I was able to sleep through the night and wake nearly 11 hours later.

I felt better in the morning. Not good, but better. It is all about increments I'm finding. I could write an entire entry about work and my frustrations there, but suffice to say that I made it through yet another day. But what I found in my mailbox when I got home pushed me back to where I was over the weekend.

Junk mail sucks and bills are generally bad enough. Advertisements for baby products and free Similac samples I'd thought were the worst. Nothing, however, compares to getting the proof of Karen's and James' grave marker for final approval. I felt the air literally suck out of my body and but for the kitchen counter to grab hold of I'm not sure my legs could have held me up much longer.

So there I was, standing in the kitchen, the waves of pain from the prior 48 hours, not to mention the prior six months, hitting me square in the face while looking down at the proof. It was difficult to see the plaque on the bench, but this was a magnitude more of despondency. Just as I thought things were difficult with the weekend, work, and my general emotions, this arrives and throws everything down a couple levels.

I think a hot shower, thermals, and sweats might have to happen again tonight and just maybe tomorrow will see an increment back upward for me.

Six Months

Six months ago today was the worst day of my life.

Six months ago today my wife, my love died in front of me.

Six months ago today I became a father only to be told my son died.

Six months ago today I fell on the floor in tears.

Six months ago today my family, overcome by their own grief, enveloped me with their love and support.

Six months ago today I last kissed Karen, caressed her hair, felt her skin against mine, and wept.

Six months ago today I felt my life ended, my future lost, and the world crashed down around me.

Six months ago today I sat numbly in my rabbi's office vainly trying to make sense of what happened.

Today, six months later, I still cannot make sense of what happened and live day to day with the horrible memories of that day, memories which I press out of my mind however temporarily by remembering the indescribably wonderful fourteen months we had together.

Today, six months later, I am living - getting out of bed each morning and trying to create something new from the shards of the shattered life I once had.

It is hard, but I press on with my journey.

It is what she would have wanted me to do. It is what I need to do to honor her memory.

I miss her so much.

2009 Israel Ride, post script -- the sand storm

One of the crew members from the ride found these pictures of the dust storm that cut short our final day of riding. They were taken by a pilot flying at about 8000 feet near the city of Be'er Sheva, about 90 miles north of where we were riding. We were told during the pre-ride safety briefing that sand storms can occur 5 to 10 times a year in the Negev, but one like this hadn't been seen in many years. The height of the dust/sand wall was approximately 4000 feet and it was moving at almost 40 miles per hour. The storm originated in the Sinai and covered the entire Negev.

Its pretty obvious when you look at the storm why the decision was made to suspend the ride until the worst of it blew past us. Of course that decision didn't prevent dust and sand from infiltrating nearly every part of my bicycle, which has a date with the technicians at Dixon's for an overhaul and cleaning.

2009 Israel Ride (Part Two)

Well the ride is over and what a ride it was. Challenging both physically and emotionally, yet rewarding in incalculable ways. I am still - and will I'm sure continue for many days, weeks, and months - processing the trip and what it has meant for me as part of my healing, but here's a little of what the final two days of riding had in store for us....


Day 4 - Shabbat at Mitzpe Ramon

We spent a well deserved day of rest at Mitzpe Ramon, which was ended with havdalah service at the edge of the maktesh. Even though the sky wasn't as clear as one would have hoped, it was an awe inspiring sight to watch the sun set over the expanse of the maktesh and see the desert around us change in color.



Before havdalah began, people were invited to share thoughts of theirs from the three days of riding or anything else that was on their mind. While I had talked about Karen and James with several people on the ride individually, I had been hesitant to bring it up in front of the group because I didn't want to spoil the festive mood that was prevalent on the ride. However, as we sat there reflecting on the past days I felt moved to open my mouth. I choked the words out to the group, telling the story I've told so many times in the past months. It was as tough as it ever was to talk about it, but I'm glad I did. I was immediately embraced by several people and over the remaining days so many more - if not every rider and crew member.


Day 5 - Mitzpe Ramon to Kibbutz Ketura (57 miles)

The day of riding began with a group photo from the top of the maktesh.



After we were done, the ride crew spaced our start to allow for intervals between riders on the downhill. Needless to say that in some cases, me included, those spaces quickly evaporated. How could I have not let myself enjoy the fun of a long downhill with several exciting switchbacks? It was a great way to begin the day!

After a short rest at the bottom to allow all the riders to re-group, we started off across the maktesh. The weather stayed a bit overcast, which helped keep the temperature down somewhat throughout the day.

The riding day had us going through some amazing terrain as we headed deeper into the Negev and the stark bareness of the terrain became increasingly wonderful to see. In addition to the monster downhill to begin the day, we rode along rolling hills -- giving us additional downhills, many coming with warning signs of their steepness.



But the cautions of steep grades were not the only signs we began encountering. Since much of the Negev is used for military training purpose, there was ample warnings against leaving the road and venturing anywhere beyond.



We made sure to keep on the safe side of the signs.



The day ended as it started with a great, long, and fast downhill into the Arva Valley. Across the valley were the hills of Jordan, obscured by the unusually hazy weather.



As great of a downhill as it was, some of us - me included - would be climbing it the following morning to begin the final day of riding. The evening, however, was devoted to rest and relaxation as we were hosted by Kibbutz Ketura, home of the Arva Institute. The hospitality shown by the kibbutz was exceptional. After a quick dip and lounging by the pool with a cold Goldstar beer, we attended a outside dinner of exceptional food, drink, and warm spirits. It almost made me forget about the morning's uphill.


Day 5 - Kibbutz Ketura to Eilat

As I said, the killer 4.8 mile downhill we had to end the day before was to be a 4.8 mile uphill to start the final day of riding. The option was given for us to be bussed to the top of the hill and start riding from there, but I and 9 other "meshugim" riders opted to get up by our own power. I felt it was a challenge, like so many others I've been facing in these months, that I needed to at least try to do and felt confident I would succeed. The route snaked up the cliff side in a series of switch-backs that were so much fun riding down but so much not on the way up.





As hard as the climb was it actually ended up being quite doable and we made it from the kibbutz to the summit in about 40 minutes and were at the first pit stop (where the main group of riders started) in just under an hour. We made great time, but it was the last we'd make in the day.

After we resumed the ride, we were almost immediately hit with a headwind that had to be 30+ miles an hour. Over the next 15 kilometers or so, we struggled to make way averaging little more than 5 - 7 MPH. At one point I got off the bike for a call of nature break, as well as to stop the incessant howl of the wind in my ears, and could barely keep from being blown over by holding onto a sign post. It was some of the worst wind I've ever encountered on my bike or off.

We made it to the next rest stop when the wind added a special twist by kicking up dust and sand. For the next twenty minutes we huddled behind what shelter we could, in this case bushes and shrubs, preparing ourselves to head out onto the road. Just as the lead rider with us announced that we should prepare to get riding again, vans showed up carrying members of the main group who had departed the rest stop about ten minutes before we arrived. They had made it about 10 kilometers down the road when the decision was made to return them to the rest stop because of the increasingly deteriorating and hazardous conditions. Eventually the entire group was reassembled at the rest stop and we were loaded on buses to skip ahead on the route. Along the way, however, we stopped at a point where the boarder with Egypt comes right up to the roadside. The guard tower in the distance is Egyptian and the barbed-wire fence next to me is the actual boarder.



From the overlook we continued by bus to the top of the final downhill into Eilat and it was determined by ride leaders that conditions had improved sufficiently enough for us to ride it. And what a ride it was. The downhill, like so many before, was fast with great switch-backs and curves, but most amazing of all was the view of the Red Sea below us. Needless to say, we were all smiles as we coasted toward the ride's end.



Once at the bottom of the descent the group came together for the final ride down the beach and to our hotel.



I feel like I keep repeating myself, but it was an amazing ride. In the past I've done other multi-day rides, but this one was not only better organized and supported than any I've done in the past, but was so emotionally powerful and through such beautiful terrain as to be incomparable. Not only that, but due to its size - only about 35 riders - it was easy to meet everyone and make new friends. As I said in my first post, I had come on the ride looking forward to the solitude of riding through the desert but now realize that the true reason for my riding was to meet new friends. It has also been a realization for me that despite what has happened and the losses I've suffered, that I am able - and need to for my sake and Karen's - to continue experiencing life and making new memories. This might sound obvious of a statement, but I assure you it is not something I could even comprehend a few short months ago. Now, even as I continue to miss her nearly every waking moment of my days, I understand that I must continue my life however difficult a concept and taks that may be.

Thank you all once again for your support in making it possible for me to have done this.

2009 Israel Ride (Part One)

Three days of riding down and two to go. Today we're spending Shabbat in Mitzpe Ramon and I finally have a reliable internet connection, as well as the energy, to writ a little something about the ride. I will post something about the pre-ride visit and acitivities soon. But before I get into what has been going on with the ride, I want to thank everyone who supported me and allowed for me to be in the wonderful place, doing this amazing adventure.

Day 1 – Tel Aviv to Ashkelon (48 miles)

Set for the first day of riding

On day one, we set off from Tel Aviv bound for the seaside city of Ashkelon. It was Yom Haatzmaut (Israel Independence Day) so the city was very quite as the shofar was sounded to start the ride. We cycled through the city passing the home of David Ben Gurion, the first Prime Minister of Israel, and Kikar Rabin, the site were Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated on November 4, 1995, after attending a peace rally in support of the Oslo Accords. From there we passed the site where Tel Aviv was founded in 1909, which sits only yards away from the building where Israel declared its independence on May 14, 1948.

Our course then took us to the sea side just north of Jaffa for our first rest stop – even though we had biked a relatively short distance. We continued along the coast for a while before heading in-land. The temperature change could be felt, but it was nothing compared to what was to come. We arrived later in the day in Ashkelon, biking past hundreds, if not thousands, of Israelis having bar-b-ques in every park or strip of grass in celebration of Independence Day.

In the evening we were able to rest our weary bodies with the view of the sun setting over the Mediterranean Sea.


Day 2 – Ashkelon to Mashabei Sade (72 miles)

After a great breakfast at the Ashkelon Holiday Inn – yes, I used great breakfast referring to a Holiday Inn – we set off for day two. Unlike day one, there was no stop and go start to get our legs warmed up and we were off on the open road right away. We pulled into a rest stop at a reservoir, which provided a view of Gaza in the near distance. In fact we were about equal distance (or so I was told) from the Israeli town of Sderot, the target of many of the rockets, and the Gaza border. Standing at such a location it was once again overwhelming evident how small of a country and area is at the center of the Israel-Palestinian problems.


Gaza is barely visible in the right

Before going on with the ride itself, I want to make a mention about how great the support and crew of this ride is. I think most of you know that I rode in two AIDS rides while I was living in DC and thought those were well run, but they have nothing compared to what this crew does. Not only do they ride with us, both in cars and on bikes, but every 10 to 15 miles there is a rest stop or pit stop where we can re-fill water bottles, grab a few dates or power bars, and sit in the shade for a few minutes - and if there isn't natural shade, which is becoming more and more rare, they erect something to provide it. There is also sunblock at about every turn, which we've all been lathering on constantly. Without these volunteers there is no way any of us could survive even half a day of riding. Thank you is not nearly sufficient enough.

We left the rest stop and headed toward the northern Negev. The route climbed slightly, but more noticeable was the gradual - and later dramatic - change of climate from the fertile fields of the western Negev, fed by the moisture of the Mediterranean (as well as the treated waste water of the surrounding communities), to the dry desert of the northern Negev. As dry as we were finding the air we were biking through, it was just a harbinger of the next day, and from what we are expecting in the final two days.

In the evening we stayed at Kibbutz Mashabei Sade. There was something nice about putting my head back down on a kibbutz, even one so dramatically different than Beit Nir, where I plan to spend a couple of days after the ride. The meal was just as I would have expected from a kibbutz, a couple of meat dishes and salads, salads, salads. Most importantly was it was tasty and filling.

Day Three - Mashabei Sade - Mitzpe Ramon (45 miles plus 10 off-road)

The alarm went off again at 5:30 a.m. -- not my preferred time wake up normally -- and we were back on the road to the sound of the shofar. This morning, however, there was no large breakfast options to send us on the way but rather a snack with the breakfast down the road at our first rest stop at Sde Boker, 16 miles away. The terrain really began to change and we started hitting the first real uphills.

We rode into Sde Boker to find a breakfast spread set out by our crew worthy of any hotel we've been to yet. Sde Boker is the kibbutz where David Ben Gurion resigned as Prime Minister to live and at which both he and his wife were eventually buried.


Ben Gurion's grave

An interesting thing about his grave is that there are three dates on it: his birthday, the date of his death, and the date he made aliyah. The view from his grave site is truly spectacular, looking out over the vast expanse of the Negev, some of which were were about to mountain bike through to visit the oasis of Ein Akev.

Now I've been on a mountain bike a few times and even road them off-road a bit, but this was the best mountain biking I've ever done. Maybe not nearly the most technical or challenging course/route out there but it was certainly the most difficult I've ever been on before. There were some steep declines, loads of jagged rocks as well as fine gravel and sand (which I found was the most difficult things to ride through), and always the the heat of the desert.



But it was worth it for the amazing oasis formed by the spring at Ein Akev. Based on the reactions of those who did go into the frigid water, I chose to keep out of the pool.



After the mountain biking excursion, we had a nice lunch back near the Ben Gurion grave site before switching back to our road bikes for the 25, or so, more miles to Mitzpe Ramon. 25 miles isn't too far, except when those are spread across three fairly nice climbs - with corresponding downhills I will add. The day ended with the biggest surprise of them all, the steepest, but thankfully shortest, climb to the hotel itself. It came at me out of no where on the final turn, but it marked the end.

We spent Shabbat at Mitzpe Ramon, which sits on the edge of the Maktesh Ramon. While often and incorrectly referred to as a crater or canyon, the Maktesh is a unique geologic occurrence which offers some positively spectacular views. Unfortunately its grandeur simply can not be captured in a photograph, but here is a little taste of what it is like....








And all around the Maktesh, and even in the town, are Ibexes. These ancestors of the modern day domesticated goats are a protected species in Israel and have returned from the brink of extinction in the decades since the passage of laws prohibiting their hunting for any reason.




Tomorrow we ride down and through the Maktesh so I will cut this update off a little short to ensure I get sufficient rest for the day. I know I keep saying it, but this is a wonderful experience and I can't thank everyone who made it possible - from my donors to the staff and crew of the ride itself - for me to do it. And while when I was getting ready to do the ride I kept talking about the need and desire for me to spend some time alone on the bike with my thoughts in the desert, I have now begun to realize that another - perhaps more important reason for the ride - was for me to have the opportunity to meet and make new friends, which has happened many times over.

Shavua tov.