With spring break on the horizon, all the students and faculty at Med U were abuzz with plans for the holiday. As usual, there is an overlap of Passover and Easter during the week break. Growing up in such a melting pot of a county, people often simply wish others a happy “break” or happy “holiday.” This year, however, I was asked more than a handful of times, “What are you doing for Passover?” I always respond the same way: smile, and say, “Well, I’m not Jewish…but I am having seder with my best friend Jo M..” In a twist of irony, I, the Catholic girl, have a German last name, which people always equate with Judaism. My best friend, meanwhile, who is Jewish, has a name “as Irish as Patty’s Pig”, as my own Irish nana would say. When I offer this information, my acquaintances assume confused expressions and then inquire about my heritage, seemingly very flustered that my name did not confirm their assumptions.
When I’m not being asked about my religion, I often get other questions about my background. Where I grew up, many of my friends were of one, or two country backgrounds, or so they thought. Usually Irish, or Italian, or some combination of the two. Now that I am in medical school, which is like a mini United Nations, I have the privilege of collaborating with people of so many diverse backgrounds. Many, if not most of my classmates are first generation Americans, if not immigrants themselves. It may be my own projections or insecurities, but when I answer that my background is diluted and muddled, and I really don’t have any cultural connection, I often feel that my classmates seem bored, or pity me for not having culture.
Inspired by a recent television series about tracing one’s ancestry, I decided to delve into my family’s tree, and try to find meaning in my heritage. While researching my ancestry for the first time, in the third grade, I discovered that I was German, Danish, Dutch, English, and Irish. What a mouthful! Later, I got another window into my ancient past when my mother got her DNA tested. As a high school science teacher, my mom takes her class annually to a world renowned research center to do experiments with DNA. One project is to use mitochondrial DNA to trace the maternal ancestral line. The information is then compared to a giant world DNA bank, and you can see where your ancestors arose. My maternal line was 98% Scandinavian, and 2% Transylvanian (cool!). But what I was to make of it? It’s not like I knew of any recent immigrants in my family. This information did not justify having St. Lucia celebrations, or lacquering my nails with Chanel Vamp; it was simply an empty fact.
I then decided to go back and check out the little report I did as an eight year old. A history of the eight great grandparents. Of the eight, only one was an immigrant—from Germany. The rest had random situations—a couple orphans, a daughter of a wealthy businessman, son of a tailor, daughter of a dressmaker, etc. (I was quite pleased to see so many fashion people in the family!) But one thing all my ancestors had in common was New York City. Piecing it together now is fascinating to me. Both my mother and father’s ancestors grew up all over my favorite parts of the city. My father was born as the seventh generation in a brownstone in what used to be a Scandinavian neighborhood in Brooklyn. Seventh generation! In the same brownstone in Brooklyn. It blew my mind. (And made me wish that house was still in the family—Park Slope is pretty nice these days!) My mother’s great grandparents were wealthy people whose family roots lay in Manhattan’s earliest beginnings. For as far back as I could trace, my family were New Yorkers, through and through.
My muddled mix of German, Danish, Dutch, English, Irish, Scandinavian, and Transylvanian, is really a reflection of the melting pot that makes up our beloved city. And I have found meaning in my heritage, and can proudly proclaim that my heritage is simply, and wonderfully, New York.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Royal Flush
The most interesting thing about vitamins to me is that British people pronounce the word vee-tamins. That’s the extent of my interest in those Easter-colored pills. To be fair, my opinion was not always this obsolete, and is just the result of two separate tries to hop on the vitamin bandwagon, both during my senior year of high school. My first go was an attempt to aid the incredible fatigue I had developed, and I assumed my lack of energy could be treated with more B 12s, Cs, calcium, and such. Swallowing one horse pill after the next did nothing except turn my pee neon yellow, and I learned from my doctor that my exhaustion was not exhaustion as much as mono. That’s senior year for you! My next try at regular vitamin intake came a few months later when I started packing on a few pounds, felt sluggish, and was ultimately asked if I was pregnant by my close friend. Desperate measures needed to be taken. Turns out, I wasn’t with child but I did have IBS, the most awkward syndrome a teenage girl, or any person for that matter, can get—irritable bowel syndrome. “Just a little backed up today. No big deal, just my bowel getting irritable again.” Awkward.
Needless to say, I was less than enthralled when my mom told me her doctor prescribed her vitamins to lower her cholesterol. “Can you believe it? Vitamins! Who prescribes vitamins before medication? Everyone I tell is amazed that a doctor would explore vitamins before jumping to Lipator! It’s really amazing. She’s so holistic! I love it.” My mom was won over and couldn’t be more thrilled to be under doctor’s orders. I, on the other hand, thought it sounded like a fairly inefficient way to manage her cholesterol and wasn’t really sure how increased doses of this nutrient and that nutrient would perform the magic the doctor promised. But who am I to squelch my mom’s boundless joy? It’s not how I roll. I ooh-ed and ahh-ed told her she was lucky to have such an open-minded internist.
That’s just like my mom though, to jump on the Titanic faster than she can notice or ask, “Why are people throwing life preservers overboard?” It’s that loose grip she keeps on her own opinions that makes her easily swayed by others but that also allows her to take risks, entertain different points of view, and enjoy the ride. Being around her is a treat, and so there was nowhere I wanted to be more than with her last weekend while Curtis was at a fishing club dinner.
My mom and I went on our regular date—Target for mindless strolling, a drink at a local wine bar, and then a movie to finish off the evening. The wine bar suited our moods and allowed us to fritter away some time trying new wines and doing nothing but catch up about her trip to Rome, my search for a co-op, and our excitement that I was sleeping over. Curtis’ dinner was an all night affair, and so my mom and I knew we’d pick him up somewhere in the wee hours of morning and why not try to stretch out the mommy and me date.
Yes, Curtis could have taken a cab home from town to my mom’s house, but what fun would that be? My mom raised my sister and me with the idea that midnight adventures are a necessary part of a life well lived. Growing up, we three would venture out to go food shopping or simply get ice cream as the clock neared twelve. Our midnight adventures, taken while the rest of the world seemed to be fast asleep, were stolen moments that I’ll always treasure. And I thought last Saturday would be no different. From wine bar to film night, the evening was going as planned, and we were both incredibly content to bundle up, crank up the heat, and pass out on the L shaped couch and miss the movie. Pretty standard.
A few heat induced comas later, Curtis called to alert the troops and tell us he was all ready to be rounded up and taken home—the night was young but he is not so much anymore. My mom stirred from her slumber in a stupor and I said, “Mom, you really don’t need to come with me. Stay here, it’s fine!”
“No, no. I’m coming. Ugh, I’m so warm though! I’m roasting! Are you warm? Is it hot in here?”
And just when I was about to ignore her complaints, I looked at her and said, “Whoa, mom, you’re burning up! That’s what you get for swaddling yourself in a quilt and burrowing yourself into the couch! You marinated and then cooked yourself!” As per usual, we both laughed, thought a midnight adventure would do her good, and then scuttled into the car.
On the way downtown, my mom cracked her window to let in the biting winter cold, and started fanning her face. “Mom, are you alright?” I asked, growing slightly concerned that my mother, who collects Social Security, was experiencing a hot flash.
“I’m fine. Just a little hot. Is it hot in here? Are you warm at all?” she asked while tugging at her turtleneck.
“No, I’m fine, mom. I’m not the one who cooked myself at 350 degrees for sixty minutes!”
We couldn’t stop laughing, probably due to delirium from being out in the middle of the night and sweating off the Greek wine we drank earlier that day. In any case, Curtis was pleased to see us drive up and eagerly ducked into the backseat, ready to go home and collapse. A night of hibachi, beer, and fishing talk will due that to a guy!
On the way home, my mom rolled down her window even more, letting in pools of frigid air. “What’s going on in here?” Curtis asked.
“Oh nothing. Mom’s just overheating! She cooked herself a little too long,” I said, laughing, with mom chuckling next to me. But then I turned my gaze from the road and saw that she had rolled her pants up to her knees and sweater up to her elbows.
“I’m burning up! I don’t know what’s going on!” she said with a laugh, although I could tell she was growing more concerned with each increasing degree. By the time we pulled into the driveway she was desperately tugging at her clothes, as if being suffocated by her wooly knits. She ran up the walkway and up to the shower, swearing that she’d be fine once she took a chilly shower.
Curtis, intoxicated and tired, did not intend to come home to a mother-in-law on fire. “Are you sure she’s okay?” he worried. Truthfully, I wasn’t too sure of the answer.
“Jo?! Can you come up here for a sec? I’m really… red.” Curtis and I exchanged nervous looks and I scurried upstairs. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw next. I’m not even sure how to explain it. My mom stood in front of her mirror in only her shiny white bra and cotton underpants. She was agape, as was I, at the shade of red her body had turned. Her very fair skin doesn’t extend beyond the hues of ghostly pale in the winter and moderately freckled in the summer, so this sunburned red that extended over her entire body, ears to toes, radiated all the more against her white undergarments.
“Mom! You’re red! What happened?” I stammered.
She shook her head and said, “It must be sleeping on the couch in the blanket, but I don’t really know! I’m burning!” She started scratching at her limbs and said, “Ow! It’s like fire ants are crawling over my body!”
Upon hearing this, Curtis yelled up to us, “It’s an allergic reaction! It must be! Do you have any Benadryl? Did you eat anything out of the ordinary?”
“The wine!” she and I said in tandem. “It has to be.” The wine. Nice try.
After some more examination and amazement at her deep tomato red skin, she finally got into the shower and yelled out, “I feel better! The shower’s helping! I think I’m fine!” Yet, moments after drying off and slipping into cotton pajamas, the fire ants were back and her skin was once again flaming.
Unable to understand her sudden seemingly allergic reaction, I did a quick search on Google for “full body flush.” I was temped to search for "my mom is on fire," but knew that would be in vain. A stream of results popped up, and as my eyes scanned the screen, my focus settled on the phrase, “Niacin body flush.”
“MOM! What vitamins did the doctor prescribe you? Aren’t you on Niacin?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because apparently it gives you something called the ‘Niacin flush.’ They actually have a name for this! And not only that, but people can apparently have reactions that last three hours and make them feel like they’re on fire! This site also says that people usually experience this flush a few days after starting Niacin.”
“Oh my god! You’re right! How did you realize that?!” my mom, a lady who makes few connections, called as she ran downstairs.
“You haven’t stopped telling me about these vitamins you’re on, and how amazing it is that your doctor prescribed them.”
She laughed, “Huh, you’re right! Wow, I’m so glad you guys are here! I don’t know what I would have done if I were alone. I probably would have gone up in smoke!”
She might not have gone up in smoke but I hope she learned her lesson about doctors who try to blow smoke up her you-know-what. Sometimes there’s nothing like a good ol’, FDA approved cholesterol busting pill to do the job. A vitamin might be more holistic but I think it’s a whole lot of crap. And after that night, my mom, Burning Woman, might agree. Well, until she hears about the next new snake oil product on the market.
Needless to say, I was less than enthralled when my mom told me her doctor prescribed her vitamins to lower her cholesterol. “Can you believe it? Vitamins! Who prescribes vitamins before medication? Everyone I tell is amazed that a doctor would explore vitamins before jumping to Lipator! It’s really amazing. She’s so holistic! I love it.” My mom was won over and couldn’t be more thrilled to be under doctor’s orders. I, on the other hand, thought it sounded like a fairly inefficient way to manage her cholesterol and wasn’t really sure how increased doses of this nutrient and that nutrient would perform the magic the doctor promised. But who am I to squelch my mom’s boundless joy? It’s not how I roll. I ooh-ed and ahh-ed told her she was lucky to have such an open-minded internist.
That’s just like my mom though, to jump on the Titanic faster than she can notice or ask, “Why are people throwing life preservers overboard?” It’s that loose grip she keeps on her own opinions that makes her easily swayed by others but that also allows her to take risks, entertain different points of view, and enjoy the ride. Being around her is a treat, and so there was nowhere I wanted to be more than with her last weekend while Curtis was at a fishing club dinner.
My mom and I went on our regular date—Target for mindless strolling, a drink at a local wine bar, and then a movie to finish off the evening. The wine bar suited our moods and allowed us to fritter away some time trying new wines and doing nothing but catch up about her trip to Rome, my search for a co-op, and our excitement that I was sleeping over. Curtis’ dinner was an all night affair, and so my mom and I knew we’d pick him up somewhere in the wee hours of morning and why not try to stretch out the mommy and me date.
Yes, Curtis could have taken a cab home from town to my mom’s house, but what fun would that be? My mom raised my sister and me with the idea that midnight adventures are a necessary part of a life well lived. Growing up, we three would venture out to go food shopping or simply get ice cream as the clock neared twelve. Our midnight adventures, taken while the rest of the world seemed to be fast asleep, were stolen moments that I’ll always treasure. And I thought last Saturday would be no different. From wine bar to film night, the evening was going as planned, and we were both incredibly content to bundle up, crank up the heat, and pass out on the L shaped couch and miss the movie. Pretty standard.
A few heat induced comas later, Curtis called to alert the troops and tell us he was all ready to be rounded up and taken home—the night was young but he is not so much anymore. My mom stirred from her slumber in a stupor and I said, “Mom, you really don’t need to come with me. Stay here, it’s fine!”
“No, no. I’m coming. Ugh, I’m so warm though! I’m roasting! Are you warm? Is it hot in here?”
And just when I was about to ignore her complaints, I looked at her and said, “Whoa, mom, you’re burning up! That’s what you get for swaddling yourself in a quilt and burrowing yourself into the couch! You marinated and then cooked yourself!” As per usual, we both laughed, thought a midnight adventure would do her good, and then scuttled into the car.
On the way downtown, my mom cracked her window to let in the biting winter cold, and started fanning her face. “Mom, are you alright?” I asked, growing slightly concerned that my mother, who collects Social Security, was experiencing a hot flash.
“I’m fine. Just a little hot. Is it hot in here? Are you warm at all?” she asked while tugging at her turtleneck.
“No, I’m fine, mom. I’m not the one who cooked myself at 350 degrees for sixty minutes!”
We couldn’t stop laughing, probably due to delirium from being out in the middle of the night and sweating off the Greek wine we drank earlier that day. In any case, Curtis was pleased to see us drive up and eagerly ducked into the backseat, ready to go home and collapse. A night of hibachi, beer, and fishing talk will due that to a guy!
On the way home, my mom rolled down her window even more, letting in pools of frigid air. “What’s going on in here?” Curtis asked.
“Oh nothing. Mom’s just overheating! She cooked herself a little too long,” I said, laughing, with mom chuckling next to me. But then I turned my gaze from the road and saw that she had rolled her pants up to her knees and sweater up to her elbows.
“I’m burning up! I don’t know what’s going on!” she said with a laugh, although I could tell she was growing more concerned with each increasing degree. By the time we pulled into the driveway she was desperately tugging at her clothes, as if being suffocated by her wooly knits. She ran up the walkway and up to the shower, swearing that she’d be fine once she took a chilly shower.
Curtis, intoxicated and tired, did not intend to come home to a mother-in-law on fire. “Are you sure she’s okay?” he worried. Truthfully, I wasn’t too sure of the answer.
“Jo?! Can you come up here for a sec? I’m really… red.” Curtis and I exchanged nervous looks and I scurried upstairs. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw next. I’m not even sure how to explain it. My mom stood in front of her mirror in only her shiny white bra and cotton underpants. She was agape, as was I, at the shade of red her body had turned. Her very fair skin doesn’t extend beyond the hues of ghostly pale in the winter and moderately freckled in the summer, so this sunburned red that extended over her entire body, ears to toes, radiated all the more against her white undergarments.
“Mom! You’re red! What happened?” I stammered.
She shook her head and said, “It must be sleeping on the couch in the blanket, but I don’t really know! I’m burning!” She started scratching at her limbs and said, “Ow! It’s like fire ants are crawling over my body!”
Upon hearing this, Curtis yelled up to us, “It’s an allergic reaction! It must be! Do you have any Benadryl? Did you eat anything out of the ordinary?”
“The wine!” she and I said in tandem. “It has to be.” The wine. Nice try.
After some more examination and amazement at her deep tomato red skin, she finally got into the shower and yelled out, “I feel better! The shower’s helping! I think I’m fine!” Yet, moments after drying off and slipping into cotton pajamas, the fire ants were back and her skin was once again flaming.
Unable to understand her sudden seemingly allergic reaction, I did a quick search on Google for “full body flush.” I was temped to search for "my mom is on fire," but knew that would be in vain. A stream of results popped up, and as my eyes scanned the screen, my focus settled on the phrase, “Niacin body flush.”
“MOM! What vitamins did the doctor prescribe you? Aren’t you on Niacin?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because apparently it gives you something called the ‘Niacin flush.’ They actually have a name for this! And not only that, but people can apparently have reactions that last three hours and make them feel like they’re on fire! This site also says that people usually experience this flush a few days after starting Niacin.”
“Oh my god! You’re right! How did you realize that?!” my mom, a lady who makes few connections, called as she ran downstairs.
“You haven’t stopped telling me about these vitamins you’re on, and how amazing it is that your doctor prescribed them.”
She laughed, “Huh, you’re right! Wow, I’m so glad you guys are here! I don’t know what I would have done if I were alone. I probably would have gone up in smoke!”
She might not have gone up in smoke but I hope she learned her lesson about doctors who try to blow smoke up her you-know-what. Sometimes there’s nothing like a good ol’, FDA approved cholesterol busting pill to do the job. A vitamin might be more holistic but I think it’s a whole lot of crap. And after that night, my mom, Burning Woman, might agree. Well, until she hears about the next new snake oil product on the market.
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