Well what can I say; I am one of seven daughters of a Tsarist father and Mother who survived the Holocaust but barely survived their daughter’s teenage years. My grandmother, who lived to her late 80’s (her real age was never known to me or my sisters), managed to get by without ever having any surgery; my mother, who is now 79, has never had any surgery. So, here I am, a reasonably healthy 51-year-old woman with a ruptured disk and nerve pain that curls my hair and makes me weep. I opt for surgery, and lo and behold, have an abnormal EKG. I go through the battery of heart-related tests and I am cleared for surgery. I tell no one about the heart irregularity, but it slips and I immediately receive call after call from my mother. You see, telling one or more of my sisters is a pipeline to my mother; I don’t care how often or how strenuously I request that the news of my imminent surgery or heart irregularity not be relayed to her, she finds out. So, the calls begin; the first message is friendly, cloying me into returning her call, “Debbie, I heard that you may have had a heart-attack, I know it’s not true please call me back.” I know this brief prelude, is merely a ploy to suck me deep into the abyss that is my mother. The next five calls are decidedly less friendly and have a sense of urgency; “Debbie call me [low sobbing sounds accompany this] I am worried about you. Debbie for G-d’s sake call me” etc.

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So, I finally muster up the courage to call her and confront the surgery issue; she tells me she is against it, she tells me (this is the ultimate threat) that she is coming to the hospital like it or not…much to my husband’s chagrin. I finally tell her it’s going to happen, accept it, and fine, come to the hospital. I do make the final move of deception for my husband’s sake, and tell her that the surgery is a couple of hours later than it actually is…smart move and one that may ultimately save my marriage. This is outpatient surgery, no heart transplant, kidney removal or potentially life-threatening move on my part. As luck would have it, the hospital makes a boo-boo and after surgery they move me to a room; my mother has decided it is because of some underlying medical condition or glitch during surgery. Despite the fact that I am up and around attempting to decipher the hospital’s error, she is pretty certain that I am in imminent danger and is crying. I send her home because the last thing I need at this point is a crying mother and an inept hospital; I can only handle one breakdown at a time.

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The following week I spend speaking to my mother who cannot handle the fact that I am seemingly okay, and even a little bit better than that - I am walking and in almost no pain. This cannot be true and is a twist of fate for my mother, who is certain I am lying to her; insists on coming over and, after finagling a matzo ball soup ransom for her visit, I allow it to happen. Unfortunately, a visit means a clean house, so I am forced to overexert and help my hubby clean; we prepare a lunch as well. My mother and her liege (husband Bob) show up; she has brought her own lunch; a hard-boiled egg and piece of bread in a napkin. When she sees I am alive and kicking and a lunch is readily available she is thrilled. The daily calls go on for the better part of a month until I am recuperated, and am able to drive to her house to personally strangle her.