A Very Un-American Wedding

"Have you ever been to American wedding?

Where is the vodka, where's marinated herring?

Nothing gets these people going, not even Gypsy Kings
Nobody talks about my Supertheory
of Supereverythings!

So be you Donald Trump
Or be an anarchist
Make sure that your wedding
Doesn't end up like this.

I understand the cultures
Of a different kind
But here word 'celebration'
Just doesn't come to mind."

-- "American Wedding," Gogol Bordello

I am spoiled by Orthodox Jewish weddings, which are marked by copious celebration, complete with skits, costumes, and tricks. The bride and groom -- who are likened to a king and queen for a week after their nuptials -- are seated together on the dance floor, and their wedding guests entertain and delight the couple. Collectively, this is all called "shtick." For example, people dress up in wigs and costumes and write messages on poster boards to the couple, or do magic tricks or gymnastics. My husband and a friend always find empty wine bottles, fill them up with water, clink bottles, and down the "wine" while the couple looks on. Occasionally, some dumb yeshiva [Jewish institution of learning] student will coat his black hat in lighter fluid and set it on fire. That one is not one of my favorite pieces of shtick.

Ironically, I used to dislike shtick: I found it annoying and less-than-classy. I thought that weddings should be tightly-scripted, formal affairs, and that anything with that level of spontaneity was untoward. It took going to several lackluster American-style weddings for me to see the error of my ways. Now matter how joyous, without the shtick, I found them boring, and somewhat soul-less compared to what I'm used to. Gogol Bordello's song "American Wedding," quoted above, captures this perfectly and is worth Googling and listening to if there's a remote chance you'll like a song in the genre Gypsy Punk.

With this in mind, I was pleasantly surprised by my dad's wedding this weekend in Phoenix. My dad loosely affiliates Jewishly, and his wife Maria is a Mexican Catholic, so I was expecting a yawner of a wedding. Luckily for David & me, this was most definitely not an American Wedding, but a Mexican wedding! The ceremony was short and sweet, and took place outside at a beautiful resort in Tempe. We had dinner inside, and then the crowd quickly segregated: Caucasians sitting around drinking, and Latinos on the dance floor. I knew which of these looked more fun, and I was completely determined to enjoy myself. One of the blessings of being so sick is that it has made me want to embrace all of life that I can, and participate fully whenever my body allows it (this is why I went down the water slide -- twice -- at the pool even though it scared me). So I hung out with the Mexicans, who quickly took me on as a protege, showing me how to do the dances, patiently encouraging me when I felt like I had three left feet. Forget pilates, by the way; meringue dancing makes pilates look like a vacation for your core!

The Mexican dances were really cool and most were choreographed group dancing, similar to the Israeli dances I see at Jewish weddings. One of the funniest moments was David and me doing the group dance to "Achy Breaky Heart" in Spanish! I was surprised to see three massive cardboard boxes full of shtick. There were masks, Elvis-style glasses, glow-in-the-dark rods, pulsating rings, Mardi Gras beads, crowns that have jewels that light up, and all matter of maracas (neon and plain)! One of the neatest things about this, and a way that it differs from Jewish weddings, is that much of the shtick was dance specific. For example, in one dance describing the bride/groom as kings and queens, the women put on the tiara-type crown, while the guys wore a more basic one. In one of David's and my favorites, a singer croons that you shouldn't call someone "dear," because of the association between deer and cuckolding. We all wore dear hats for that one (see above; thank you to David, my photographer).

I was grateful that I was able to get David into this, because we ended up both having a fabulous time. Neither of us knows how to dance all that well, but at some point in my adulthood I decided, "F-it. I'm just going to go for it and move to the music, and I don't care how dumb I look." Let's be honest: most amateur dancers look goofy anyway, so I might as well join them and have fun. We had to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to make our flight, and planned to stay until 10:00 or 10:30 p.m. Every time we tried to leave, people started chanting "Stay, stay!" in Spanish. How can you leave with that fanfare? We partied until about 12:15 a.m. They went on until 2 a.m., and the partying continues tonight and for a few more days. This is another similarity to Judaism, where couples have seven days of parties thrown for them after their weddings.

So everyone won: the Mexicans were glad that David and I were interested in their culture, my sister laughed so hard she nearly peed herself, and we had a great time and killer workout. In fact, I got the greatest compliment: someone asked Maria, my dad's wife, who the white girl was dancing with the Latin contingent. She said, "Mike's daughter." They said, "Really? She looks like she belongs with you." Awesome.

Home Sweet Home

I'm sorry for not blogging more recently, but I've had a very rough few weeks with the extreme fatigue caused by my Lyme Disease. I have needed to sleep a lot, which doesn't leave a whole lot of time for creativity when I deduct time spent on my obligations. I've had "writing" on my list for a while, and today feel full of inspiration and possibilities that I wanted to share about.

David & I are working with a designer, Susan Covell, to redecorate our living room. I'll provide more specifics in a later post. I've been thinking about furniture and design a lot lately, and I hesitate to admit that in some ways I have become my mother, who is truly attached to her home. I have become more attached to my home as years have gone by. We bought the house in December 2003, and have completely gutted and replaced the kitchen; finished the basement to make a guest room, bath, music room and laundry closet. We've also moved and completely redone the upstairs bathroom, and replaced all of the upstairs doors with lovely five-panel doors. This is in addition to smaller improvements like interior and exterior painting.

As David & I have customized our house more to our liking, my fondness for it has grown, but that alone does not explain the new-found passion I feel for it. I've experienced a shift in how I view my life and my home. I used to see this house as the best house we could afford in our area, and the way station until we moved somewhere else different, bigger. I've come to plan to stay in this home, because I hate moving, but more importantly because this house genuinely has a lot of charm. I lack self-confidence in general, and that doesn't exclude the arena of home decorating, so I'm so grateful to the litany of really classy, stylish, more sophisticated people who have said to me, "Do you know what a gem this house is? It is good and could be fabulous." They have helped build my confidence, which I think is also just increasing with age; the older I get the more I trust myself and my taste.

I now view my home as my nest, my safe place. I've embraced that I hate traveling, and that I want to spend as much time at home as possible. Therefore, I want to invest in it properly and decorate with an eye toward longevity. I'd like quality furniture and art that will serve us well over time, and that we'll continue to love. I'm excited our living room renovation is giving us a chance to do this.

Concerning the shift in my attitude toward my home, I see another significant factor at work: as the years fly by and most of my friends have left (or are planning to leave) the city for far more spacious and affordable homes in the suburbs, I have become keenly aware of how much I would hate to live in those areas. I used to think that my distaste was limited to the Maryland burbs where Orthodox Jews settle in our area (a prerequisite for our religious observance), but I've realized that I just don't like suburbs in general, anywhere; let me be clear that I do not mean "suburbs" like Alexandria, VA, which is in itself a small little city, where people can live and walk to commercial spaces and have ample access to public transit. My distaste is for the areas where you have to get in your car to access commerce and recreation. Sorry to sound so dramatic, but I feel like my soul is muted when I have to spend more than a few hours in the burbs. I long for the safe, enclosed feeling of my neighborhood, and I long for the safety of sidewalks. I miss the noise (I remember growing up in a single-family home in Memphis and thinking, "If anyone killed us, no one is close enough to hear us scream." BTW, according to my definition above, Memphis is a suburb).

Furthermore, I view the burbs as the complete antithesis of what I love about city life, which has actually morphed into my values. For example, I recoil at the idea of living in a place where I have to get into my car to run errands. The costs of over-dependence on cars are environmental ruin and physical decline, since running errands in the suburbs only requires walking from the house to the garage. I love that I walk to my dry cleaners, grocery store, pharmacy, pet store, gym, library, Kacy's veterinarian, and several neighborhood gift stores that I patronize.

Another example of how my values and location are synergistic is diversity and inclusion. I love that we do not live in an area almost completely surrounded by other Jews. I recognize the importance of Jewish community, yet have never liked the ghetto mentality of living in a predominately Jewish neighborhood. I love that my neighbors are black, Asian, gay, bi-racial, and that our block has so many different types of families on it. I loved our block's holiday party, which was actually a floating party: you started at one house and went to another for the whole night. I acknowledge that I don't live in the most diverse neighborhood on earth, but I would miss even this level of diversity. There are certainly different types of people and families in the burbs, but my Jewish friends who live there seem to have little to do with their non-Jewish neighbors.

I understand that the suburbs are a good choice for some other people, and that in many ways their qualities of life can improve, like not spending two hours driving their kids to Jewish schools or being close to a kosher market. They're just not for me, and I'm thankful that David is like-minded. If anything, he's more rabid than I am. I'd take a condo in the city over a manse in the suburbs any day. I write a gratitude list every night with at least five things that I'm grateful for. Living in the neighborhood that I live in is often on that list.

This post took me three days to write.

"The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo"

Stieg Larsson's novel, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" is one of the best books I've ever read, and not just because I love Sweden. It has multiple, very intricate and tightly-woven plot lines that individually would have been good stories, but together constitute sheer genius. The book is part financial thriller: Swedish journalist Mikael Blomkvist initially is found guilty of libeling a financial magnate. In the wake of this, another captain of industry hires Blomkvist to his remote village to investigate the disappearance of his favorite niece, Harriet, forty years ago. The twists and turns that this investigation yields are nothing less than thrilling. While reading "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," I actually found myself grinning multiple times at Larsson's ingenuity, along the lines of "You go, Stieg! How did you think of that?! That was awesome!"

Blomkvist's path converges with Lisbeth Salander's, a 20-something genius hacker cum sociopath. This heroine has a huge chip on her shoulder, and initially comes across as crude, nasty, anti-social, and generally unlikable. However, like most of Larsson's characters, what you see is not what you get, and I could not help but fall for Salander's street-smarts, self-preservation, and unwillingness to get with the program and conform. I began to sympathize with -- but never pity -- Salander, for her character -- as sad as it is -- defies pity. You get the sense that she could go through literal hell, pick herself up, give the offender the middle finger, and enact her own brand of vigilante justice, as she indeed does in what I will only call the tattoo scene (because I hope that you choose to read this treat). Salander is one of the most moral characters I've ever encountered in literature: she firmly believes in doing the right thing, albeit her own version of doing the right thing, which eschews police in favor of more poetic, swifty justice. Another aspect of Salandar's character that I admire is that in spite of being the victim of brutal sexual assaults, she exudes healthy sexual confidence.

Besides the intriguing, well-crafted and well-written plot, this book (and the sequel, "The Girl Who Played With Fire," which I'm currently reading) is a window into the mind and heart of the deceased Larsson, an investigative journalist not unlike Blomkvist, who spent much of his career exposing the Swedish Nazi party and advocating for women's issues. This interest in women, especially violence and abuse of women, comes up repeatedly in Larsson's books, either directly in the plot, or in the random facts that open the chapters of "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," like "X percent of Swedish women have been caused bodily harm by a partner." I heard a podcast with the American editor of Larsson's trilogy, who said to the best of his knowledge, the facts are accurate.

I want to tell you that I have never had an adrenaline reaction like I had reading "The Girl..." I distinctly remember feeling like hell from my Lyme Disease pain after going to a museum exhibit with my in-laws for a couple of hours. I came home, ate lunch, got into my pajamas, and intended to read for 15 minutes before sleeping for the rest of the afternoon. I hit one of climaxes of the novel much earlier than I anticipated. When I became aware of my body, I realized that I had arched my back up off the bed and rigidly held my arms still. My mouth was dry as a bone, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. My heart beat so hard I could feel it pounding in my chest. So much for sleep that afternoon; I just read another 50 pages.

I should give fair warning that "The Girl..." has brutal violence, but I never thought that it was gratuitous. The violent and non-violent tension throughout the book meant that I should not have picked it up after 8:00 p.m. to ensure that I could get to bed on time; the excellent, addictive nature of this narrative ensured that that never happened.

Today, I went to see the Swedish film version of "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." I heard somewhere that there was an English version in the works, but haven't confirmed this. The concession guy's condescending attitude when hearing which movie a few of us were going to see made me think I was heading for suckville, but I can only guess he's not a fan of the books. I am so fond of the characters, I think I was destined to like the movie because the characters felt genuine. Blomkvist is as every-mannish and non-judgmental as I imagined him to be; Salander was as contemptible/sympathetic as she was in the book.

However, I found it irresponsible and annoying that the film's writers went so far in hinting at the genesis of All The Evil -- the event, or events, that were the tipping point in Salander's psychopathy. The first book of the trilogy shows you the aftermath of All The Evil; presumably, the precipitating factors emerge during "The Girl Who Played With Fire" and the third and final book, "The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest," which will debut in the U.S. on May 25. Yay! This spoiler only helped the movie a little by trying to shed light on the origin of Salander's mental health problems (to put it diplomatically), but mostly succeeded in just annoying me.

I am sad that Larsson passed away, so will not be gracing our world with any more excellent novels, but I'm grateful to him for handing in three excellent manuscripts before he died.

Ratings: book, 5 stars; film, 3 stars.

The Worst, And Best, Of Humanity

I have been snowed under by Passover, so sorry for not posting. I've had a couple of experiences lately that are completely juxtaposed that I wanted to share. I always believe in delivering bad news first, so we'll start there.

I was working out at the gym when I spotted a 30-something year old man wearing a t-shirt that caught my eye. It said, verbatim: "Yes, I have lots of spare change, you homeless piece of shit. Thanks for asking." The bottom of the shirt depicted a pile of change. I was astounded that someone would consider designing, producing, and selling such a vicious shirt -- let alone wearing it. I don't exaggerate when I say that I would rather be naked than wear something that mean, and I don't have a beach-ready body, to say the least. I was stunned by that shirt, and walked away shaking my head. The gym's manager was exiting his office and said to me, "Is everything ok?" I told him to go read the shirt on the guy working out on the Arc Trainer. Later he said, "Next time I see that guy I'm going to say something to him about it."

I left the gym with that shirt on my mind, feeling bad for whatever exists in humans that would allow someone to feel ok propagating that message. It's easy for me to start feeling crummy about the whole human race when I encounter people like that, so I'm glad I had the following experience a few days later:

If you don't live in a big city you might not know that some homeless people ride the buses all day to give them air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter. So, when I got on the D2 bus to head home, I wasn't surprised to see a homeless woman with terrible cataracts that I often see on that route. She must have said something to the bus driver about being hungry, and I started paying attention when the driver offered the woman an ice-cold bottle of water and a quart-size ziplock bag full of trail mix. The following exchange ensued:

Woman: "I don't want to take your lunch."

Driver: "You aren't. I already ate my lunch -- two tuna sandwiches!"

Woman: "Than what is this food? Am I taking your snack?"

Driver: "I always carry a snack and a bottle of water in case I see any of my homeless brothers and sisters and they're hungry or thirsty. I figure that it's my duty to take care of my fellow man."

I sat back watching this, stunned. In fact, tears are overflowing from my eyes right now. It's so rare to see such kindness in motion, especially the premeditated kind. This man goes to work every day with a meal for someone else. Wow.

I debated the rest of the bus ride home about whether to say something to the driver on my way out. I didn't want to embarrass either the homeless woman or him, but I felt so strongly, I couldn't help myself. I struck a balance by leaning over to him as I was getting off at my stop and said quietly, "I saw that interaction when you gave away your food. You are truly awesome, and I so admire you." He said, "Thank you. You're awesome too. Thank you for riding my bus today."

The interaction on the bus challenged me to think critically about what I actually do and what I should do to make the world a better place and take care of my fellow brothers and sisters. I donate money to charities that serve the homeless, but I'm considering buying a box of granola bars from Costco and carrying them in Kacy's dog-walking bag, where I keep spare bags, my iPod, treats, etc. I encounter homeless people several times a week who ask me for money or food, but I don't carry money when I walk the dog, nor do I feel sanguine about giving money to random people on the street.

The bus driver helped many more people that day than the homeless woman he fed. He helped me, and anyone else on board paying attention, by showing me humankind at its best. He gives service in a very tangible way, with a humble bearing, and an open heart. In a way, he helped restore my faith in humanity.

----

It took me two days to type this post.

Loving-kindness Meditation

My friend, A-Team cheerleader, and meditation enthusiast, Stef, graciously sent me a CD of some of her favorite guided meditations to help me meditate when my pain is so distracting, I can't even stay with one breath. It has been a few days since I meditated, and I noticed the effects on my spirit. I am so imperfect about my practice, yet I feel like it is an integral part of my spiritual life, so I keep trying.

After a few days of whining that I hadn't left adequate time for prayer or meditation in my busy mornings, this morning I turned words into deeds and sat down to listen to Jack Kornfield's loving-kindness meditation that was on Stef's compilation. This is a traditional Buddhist meditation that is designed to help us have a compassionate and loving heart toward all. For the record, I am not a Buddhist, but loosely consider myself a student of Buddhist meditation. The loving-kindness meditation first had me focus on repeating phrases that would open my heart and encourage compassion and love for myself. Then, I repeated the process, first focusing on people who are dear to me, and then later, extending the loving thoughts toward strangers and even enemies (which I gratefully do not have).

I felt fantastic after this, getting up from my meditation and the prayer that followed it, feeling truly at one with the world (Dan Brown fans: at-one-ment). My body and soul felt harmonious. Then it was time to walk Kacy before my chiropractic appointment, and I was trying to lead her out of the shadowy side of the block and onto the western side of the street, which was bathed in sunlight. Being a terrier, she wanted to go east, to Wisconsin Ave., so she was reluctant as I led her across the intersection of 33rd and Volta. At this point, a lunatic ignores the four-way stop at the intersection, and rolls through, stopping just two feet away from hitting Kacy and me, yet staring me down with a clear "Hurry up!" look. "What the fuck?!" I say, and my body and soul fill with rage. So much for my loving-kindness meditation! He then rolls down his window and says something vitriolic to me; luckily, I couldn't hear his phrase over my iPod, but I distinctly caught the f-bomb and the word "puppy."

So this rage-a-holic dude was mad at my dog for being slow when he was rushing through a residential intersection. I seethed for a few minutes, beating myself up for letting the harmony get away from me so quickly, while simultaneously laughing at the idea of this guy "ruining" my loving-kindness meditation. Then I stopped and did two crucial things: first, I decided Mr. Jerky Driver wasn't going to take away any more peace from my day, and I let it go. Really. Then I decided that there was nothing to "ruin" from my meditation, that I could accept myself for the volatile, imperfect human that I am, and more importantly, that I could extend loving-kindness to other people I would encounter over the course of my day.

And I have: I had compassion for the ridiculously slow and frustrating receptionist at my chiropractor's office, as well as for his assistant who carries a boatload of attitude toward anyone she perceives as "privileged," which she deems me. I complimented the receptionist on something she did well, and I asked the assistant how her kids were and how old they are now. These actions were not for show; they were sincere, and I believe they emanated from the intention of my loving-kindness meditation. Even with the jerky driver, I'd say this is a very good day indeed.

Doctors: Your Patients Know Obesity Is A Problem

I have no doubt that my obesity compromised my health care. I'm not referring to my health, but to my actual health care. When I weighed 250 pounds, I felt dismissed and looked down on by many doctors. I felt disrespected. So it was gratifying to see that my experience was not unique, and indeed is quantifiable: scientists reported in the November issue of the Journal of General Internal Medicine that the higher the patients' body mass index (BMI), the less respect doctors have for them. The irony is not lost on me that the patients with the highest BMIs might also be the people most likely to be in dire need of quality health care from an empathetic practitioner.

Being an obese patient caused me enough anxiety that I searched online databases of "fat-friendly" doctors to try to find a practitioner who wouldn't make me feel like a freak. Some of my concerns were very tangible and practical: Would they have a gown big enough to fit me? Would they weigh me in a public hallway? But what really worried me was the disdain that I often encountered.

Upon seeing an internist for the first time, he chided me about my weight and told me. "If you just reach for baby carrots instead of Oreos when you're hungry, you'll lose weight." I nodded sheepishly, my cheeks burning. What I really thought was, "You dumbfuck. Congratulations! You just solved America's obesity crisis. Who knew it was that simple? Wow, carrots instead of Oreos. What a chiddush [insight/epiphany]!"

Another barrier to health care for the obese is the presumption that anything wrong with you must be directly or indirectly related to your obesity. I saw a jerk of an orthopedist shortly after a car accident in which I sustained whiplash. After ruling out major injuries with an MRI, his #1 recommendation to me was to follow the South Beach Diet. My pain persisted, and I sought follow-up care from him, but he was very dismissive. "If you'd just lose the weight, your back wouldn't hurt," the mean orthopedist said. Here I am, 102 pounds lighter. To be fair, my back is substantially better, but I still need chiropractic care. By the way, I ran into the aforementioned orthopedist on the street last year. He didn't recognize me at my new weight, and I seriously considered pulling him aside to tell him how hurtful and harmful his derision was to me, and to tell him how I finally did get a handle on my eating disorder (not with the South Beach diet). I chickened out.

Before losing the 102 pounds, I asked my ex-chiropractor if he thought my weight was causing my back problems. He replied, "Look around my waiting room. Most of my patients are not overweight." I'm not arguing that obesity does not cause or aggravate some health problems; just that the assumption that this is always the case is erroneous and damaging. I have run into this assumption so many times, it's infuriating. I feel like obesity is the biggest scapegoat in health care; it's far easier for a doctor to say "lose weight" than to take the time to address the complex factors that might be causing the complaint.

I'm sympathetic to health care providers who have to walk the fine line of counseling patients on their health -- which includes information on attaining or maintaining a healthy body weight -- but who risk angering their patients. I think whether or not a doctor broaches this subject with patients depends on their relationship, the patient's health, and other factors. However, if doctors choose to go there, they have to be tactful when broaching the subject, and I have some tips for them:

1. Context is everything. If I'm going to a dermatologist because of an acne flare up, it would be inappropriate for her to offer unsolicited advice about my weight.

2. I think doctors need to acknowledge how difficult weight-loss is, especially for obese people. I give my old internist, Dr. Graves (no, that's not a made up name!), a lot of credit in this area: he would suggest that I lose weight but always said, "I know it's so hard, Sarah. In fact, I haven't had any patients who have really been successful in the long run, but please keep trying." I found this simultaneously comforting and discouraging at the same time, but I appreciated his candor.

3. Providers should be prepared with suggestions beyond trying Weight Watchers or the latest fad diet. Those might be helpful tools for some people, but I personally believe that most people who are as obese as I was are true food addicts, not merely people who need a cheerleader and a public, weekly weigh-in to motivate or shame them into compliance. Many of you know that the Overeaters Anonymous-H.O.W. Concept was and is my gateway to recovery. I don't think it's an answer for everyone, but I do my best to educate my doctors about OA-HOW and its role in my recovery. Therapists and nutritionists with specialties in binge-eating disorders are other resources doctors could refer patients to.

4. Doctors in glass houses should not throw stones. It was very hard for me to take seriously any exhortations for me to lose weight when the doctor nagging me was overweight or obese himself.

5. Finally, health care providers should approach obese patients with the understanding that no one in this country thinks that his/her obesity is not a problem. Often doctors would speak to me as if they were the first person to bring this up, when in fact, they were the hundredth. This is akin to smokers; there are no smokers left in this country who don't know that smoking is dangerous to their health and their social lives. The same is true for overweight people. They understand the danger, but don't know how to control the compulsion that leads them to overeat, or how to overcome the deeply ingrained lifestyle habits that contribute to their body mass.

I am grateful that Dr. Huizinga published her research on doctors' disdain for obese patients. I hope that it sparks some soul-searching on the part of doctors to think about how they relate to their fat patients and how their attitudes might compromise the care of this already vulnerable population.

Health Update

I had my follow up appointment with Dr. F and Gladys, my nurse practitioner and got some interesting lab results. I am still positive for Lyme Disease and Bartonella, one of the co-infection I'm presenting symptoms for. This wasn't surprising, but it was gratifying. We added the Rifampin back in, but at half the dose I took when the flaky naturopath prescribed it for me; the hope was that I wouldn't have the Herxheimer reactions I describe in this post. Unfortunately, I have. My symptoms are exhaustion and burning in my forearms. Additionally, my forearms feel like they're in a vice.

Dr. F is taking me off the Rifampin, and I'm trying Factive instead. If this doesn't work, I'm not sure what we'll do, but I'll cross that bridge if and when I come to it.

So, here's how my antibiotic regimen looks now:

Sundays: off

Mon./Wed./Fri: 300 mg Azithromycin

Tues./Thrs./Sat.: Minocycline

7 days of Factive (320 mg) followed by 7 days off

My energy is very low, and my mood is crummy: it's hard not to get sucked into self-pity when I'm this incapacitated. All I know is that we have to get this sorted out before Passover, because I can't cook for a seder if I'm in this condition. More later when I can type with less pain.