And I Thank the Lord There Are People Out There Like You

Because I used to be a deejay, I sometimes name my blog posts after song titles, or after lyrics that I like. If you're a Rush fan, you know I've quoted from some of theirs-- "Freewill" and "Witch Hunt" and "Spirit of Radio," to cite three examples. But as I look at the end of 2023, what comes to mind isn't Rush songs, but rather, a great 1996 dance hit by OMC called "How Bizarre." It truly was a bizarre year, with incredible and unexpected highs (getting inducted into the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame in June; being on stage with Geddy Lee in Cleveland in November) and at least one incredible and unexpected low (being fired by email, told that I am losing my job, despite 15 years of going above and beyond). 

It was a year when Twitter, now renamed "X" (which nobody I know ever calls it-- I don't know about you, but to me, it's still Twitter and I still send out Tweets) deteriorated into a place where haters-- neo-Nazis, antisemites, white supremacists, etc.-- love to congregate. But some of us still resist, and many friendships still endure. A lot of my followers and I still gather nightly to play Wordle and compare our scores. We still gather to raise money for kids and teachers in need via Donors Choose. 

And speaking of social media, for reasons that I don't entirely understand, I sit at the end of 2023 with 9389 followers on Twitter, and more than 4800 on Facebook. I've been blogging since 2015, and I continued to do so throughout 2023. Some of my blog posts can attract several thousand views; others get fewer than 100; but the fact that folks I don't even know personally are interested in what I write still amazes me.

In mid-December (see previous blog post), I celebrated being 9 years cancer-free. But to be honest, it's hard to celebrate without remembering the folks we've lost to cancer over the years, including our beloved Neil Peart of Rush, and my mother (of blessed memory), and more recently, one of my favorite baseball players-- Tim Wakefield. There are lots of folks who are beating cancer, and I am grateful to be among them. But there are still too many others whose story did not have a happy ending. I'm hoping that ongoing research will lead to new treatments and new cures in the new year ahead.

Politics remained as divisive and hateful as ever: having been around for a while, I can remember other eras of anger and division, like the Vietnam Era, but I still can't get used to a world where a growing number of politicians think it's okay to sling crude insults at their opponents and talk like schoolyard bullies, or use racist or antisemitic tropes in their political speeches, just to pander to certain voters. In fact, it was a year when hatred of "the other" (Jews, Muslims, immigrants, gay people) was on the march in many countries, often fueled by craven political leaders. I kept wishing for one of them to take a stand and say "no" to hate, but it was a year when political courage was in short supply.    

And yet, through a year that can only be described as bizarre (believe me, I never expected to be inducted into the Mass. Broadcasters Hall of Fame... and I never expected to be fired from my job either), there was one constant: you. When I was frustrated or discouraged, when I doubted myself, when I was feeling like what I had to say didn't matter, when some of the haters directed their words at me, you defended me. You encouraged me. You let me know you cared.

I hope I was able to do the same for many of you, and I will continue to reach out in the new year. Meanwhile, as 2023 comes to a close, I'm gratified to know that there are still people who take friendship seriously, who believe in kindness, and who care about ethics. So, to paraphrase the words of an Elton John song, I thank the Lord there are people out there like you. May 2024 bring you good health and good fortune. And may we all live to see a more peaceful world. Happy new year! 

I'm Not Supposed to Be Here (But I'm Glad I Am)

I remember it as if it was almost yesterday. It was the last week in November 2014 when I got the phone call from the specialist. And he told me what my primary care doctor and I had suspected. I had been diagnosed with cancer.

I wasn't surprised. Some of you know me, and you know the genetic hand I was dealt: just about all the women on the maternal side of my family got similar diagnoses, and all of them had succumbed to the disease. I can still remember watching my mother's battle with cancer. She had told me many times about her own mother, the grandmother I never met, who died at only 44 years old. My mother was just 71 when she passed, and from that day on, I dreaded what the future might hold for me.

I was 67 when I got the phone call. And thanks to early detection, I was able to have my surgery on this day (December 17) in 2014. Interestingly, I had an all-female staff working on my case: the oncologist was a woman, the anesthesiologist was a woman, as were all the nurses and the nurse practitioners. I grew up in an era when women were still discouraged from becoming doctors, and I had to admit that it made me smile to note how much society had changed. 

After the surgery, I had a month of radiation (no fun, but better than the alternative), and then, I had to come back to the hospital for regular tests, to make sure the cancer had not returned. Gradually, the testing regimen dwindled from every few months to once a year; and after 5 years, I was told that the odds of a recurrence were very low. But that hasn't stopped me from worrying-- cancer is a relentless foe, and it can make a return when one least expects it. 

But today is not a day for worrying. Today is my 9th anniversary of being cancer-free. I am deeply grateful to the excellent medical team that took care of me, and even on my worst day, I am grateful to be alive. I am also mindful of the many others in my family who are gone, as well as my friends and colleagues who have endured their own cancer diagnosis. Some of you who are reading this blog may be going through it yourself.

The good news is that there have been so many advances in cancer treatment. So many people, myself included, are living proof of that. We are still here, when previous generations had little hope of survival. On the other hand, we all know people whose type of cancer did not have that good outcome. In their memory, I hope you will make a donation to the hospital of your choice, so that researchers can continue to seek (and, hopefully, find) new cures. 

And for those who are going through what I did, please know you are not alone. Please know there is hope, and more people than in any previous generation are winning the fight. For me, it's my nine year anniversary of being cancer-free, and for however many more years God gives me, I will continue to be grateful. And I will continue to hope that one day, everyone with a cancer diagnosis will be able to survive and thrive... as I have.     

There Seems to Be a War on Hanukkah

I was thinking about Hanukkah a lot this week, and that's not something I usually do. Don't get me wrong: it's a perfectly nice holiday, and I enjoy it-- although attempts to turn it into the "Jewish Christmas" aren't very helpful. But it's actually a minor holiday in Judaism, and I think about Passover or Jewish New Year much more. Lately, however, Hanukkah is in the news, and not in a good way: I'm saddened to hear that some cities where they used to have a public lighting of the menorah are canceling those events, and others are hiring extra police to protect the celebrants. Hanukkah didn't used to be controversial. It's a small but happy holiday-- about miracles, about gratitude to God, and about religious freedom. But now, a lot of Jews are afraid to publicly observe it... and that's sad too. 

Truth be told, the culture at this time of year is seldom Hanukkah-oriented. Everywhere we go, all we can see are Christmas decorations, Christmas ornaments, and Christmas displays. Okay fine, Christmas is a major holiday in an overwhelmingly Christian country, and Hanukkah comes at a different time each year. But even when the dates align, most merchants and most civic spaces tend to treat Hanukkah like it doesn't exist. In a few cities with large Jewish populations, there might be a public menorah lighting, but for the most part, Jews observe Hanukkah at home, lighting their menorah near a window, a symbol of shining the light of hope into a world darkened by prejudice. 

But this year, prejudice seems to be winning. The Israel-Hamas war has brought out angry protesters who chant slogans that are not just pro-Palestinian but often anti-Jewish. I don't understand how screaming at the Jewish owner of a falafel restaurant in Philadelphia is going to get the war to stop. I don't understand how vilifying random Jews-- as if we are all somehow to blame for what the Israeli government is doing-- is an effective strategy for bringing about a more peaceful world. And I absolutely don't understand how shutting down Hanukkah observances (or any other Jewish holiday celebrations) will bring us any closer to mutual respect and understanding.

And we need mutual respect now more than ever. I read statements from my friends on the right that the Jews need to be converted and that America is really a Christian nation (no we don't, and no it isn't). I read statements from my friends on the left that Jews are responsible for Palestinian suffering (I am not responsible for what the government of Israel does; I don't live there. I support a two-state solution and I always have. And as an American, I totally reject Islamophobia. But I also wonder why there is so little anger at the many, many Muslim-majority nations, especially those run by autocrats, where they seem fine about having lots of noisy anti-Israel demonstrations, but do very little to actually welcome Palestinian refugees, and even less to make life better for them).      

As for me, I want to live in a world where it's safe for me to wear my Jewish star without someone berating me about what they think my politics are. I want to live in a world where people of all faiths, and no faiths, can respect each other's views and then go grab some lunch together. I want to live in a world where the haters don't win-- no matter how noisy they are. Now more than ever, we don't need a war on Hanukkah. We need to eat some potato pancakes and some jelly donuts together. And it might be nice if everyone put up a menorah, a symbol of taking a stand for tolerance and respect over hate and bigotry. Even teddy bears agree: the world could use more kindness and the world could use more friendship, especially among people with different views. So, as Hanukkah begins, I'm hoping you will join me in bringing a little more light into a world that needs it. Happy Hanukkah!