Barry Eisenberg

“That painting. It’s intriguing. Do you know the artist?” I asked, gesturing to the multicolored swirl that seemed to flutter off the canvas. It was as though a pastel-streaked linen surrendered to a gust of wind. I took a closer look. The title, aptly Crimson Wave, and the artist’s signature were scripted faintly in pencil in the lower margin. “Oh, yes, of course, Michael. He’s up and coming,” Emmeline, the gallery owner, replied, offputtingly tossing out his first name as though we recently toasted his latest gallery opening over Eggs Florentine at a Hamptons brunch.

Cal and Sophie were preparing to bake a red velvet cake for a friend’s birthday. Cal stared at the canister containing the bag of flour on the top shelf of the pantry, taking a moment to judge if he needed a stepstool to reach it. He opted to stand on his tiptoes. As his outstretched fingers glanced the canister, he felt a twinge in his left knee. It didn’t hurt – it was more like an unwelcome surprise – and it left just as quickly as it came. A week later, as Cal was getting out of the car to drop clothes at the cleaners, the same pinch occurred. But this time, instead of a minor twinge, it felt like a sharp stab deep in his knee that lasted about five seconds before subsiding.

“I never met anyone like her,” Fischel declared with a conviction at odds with his softness of manner. It was 1979 and I was sitting with Fischel in the living room in his modest home in a Philadelphia suburb. He was about 90 and revealed just a hint of frailty, like a slight hesitation in his movement as though he had a recent fall and was being extra careful. But when he reminisced about her, his eyes lit up and a sweet smile swept across his furrowed face. He was 14 and she was 13 when they met, he told me, confessing that he was so enamored, so deeply infatuated, that he became tongue tied. She was spirited, infectiously buoyant, he explained. But more, at such a young age she’d already earned a reputation for being a wise soul.

There it was, that stiff cardboard Priority Mail envelope. It was tucked on a high shelf under a stack of books that hadn’t been touched for about 10 years. We are in the final stages of packing in preparation for our move next month, and as I lifted those books to put them in a box I couldn’t help but smile when I saw that envelope. I knew exactly what was inside. It was an impulse purchase I made many years ago, a tiny piece of paper about a half inch wide by a quarter inch high. Slightly thicker than ordinary copy paper, it had one hand-written word in black ink.

I was sure the top three responses would be having surgery, starting chemo, and getting a confirmed diagnosis. But those were not the answers to the question I posed to the focus group I was leading, “What was the scariest thing that happened to you at the hospital?” The nine people seated in a circle around me were former patients at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center (MSK), where I worked many years ago. After a slight pause and some nervous fidgeting, a woman sitting directly across from me raised her hand and tentatively said, “I’ll start.” As we all turned to her, she began with, “The scariest thing that happened was not what I expected.”

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon some years back.  Calmly snuggled on the sofa, Tara and Ruby, our golden retrievers, were the epitome of contentedness. Then, boom! Out of nowhere, they lurched from their coma-like midday nap, flying over to a living room heating vent located at the baseboard. Their back hair bristled, and they couldn’t be more animated as they sniffed at the vent, powered by a frenzied id ordinarily reserved for mating episodes. Then, together, like an out-of-control freight train, they bolted for another vent in the dining room. Seconds after, they raced back to the living room vent. It was instantaneously apparent that something had gotten into the house. But what? No doubt some animal. With some trepidation, I headed toward the basement door.  

Peter didn’t sip, he gulped. He didn’t eat, he devoured. Our long-time biking group would routinely stop for breakfast on our Saturday and Sunday rides. Peter would scan the menu, his radar-like detection zeroing in on selections called The Belly Buster or The Hungry Man Special. Turning to the waiter, he’d request with a smile, “Please make sure the home fries are well done and bring extra butter for the toast.” Peter’s appetite was part of his charm. And it wasn’t confined to food. He craved acquiring things, lots of things – shoes, clothes, bike accessories. He had quite the collection of fountain pens. Peter was lovable, the proverbial teddy bear, and the first to make himself the butt of the joke.

This is the time of year for reflecting on the things for which we are thankful. I am fortunate to have much to be grateful for, especially my loving family and good friends. This Thanksgiving, I’d like to express my gratitude to a group of people who are very special to me for their unwavering dedication to improving the world of healthcare. These are the wonderful students in the MBA in Healthcare Leadership, the program I oversee at SUNY Empire State University.

Our group was traveling on a narrow two-lane highway through a remote wooded area in the south-central part of Israel. I was sitting toward the front of our chartered bus. Up ahead, two soldiers stood on the side of the road.  As we neared them, the driver slowed, stopped the bus, and opened the door. The soldiers boarded in a way that seemed as routine as passengers hopping on a city bus anywhere in the United States. They nodded politely as they took seats in the front, just behind the driver. They were dressed in camouflage khakis, and draped across their chests were powerful looking submachine guns, which I soon learned were called Uzis. I had never before seen a soldier with a gun up close and it was mesmerizing. That was the summer of 1967.

My last email exchange with Jim Chesebro was in June 2019. He had sent me a note of congratulations about an article I had written. In that note he mentioned that he had recently retired. No way! This couldn’t be. Not Jim. Not with his relentless energy, his infectious joie de vivre, his passion to find meaning in the ordinary and demystify the momentous.  

It wasn’t until she said the word sister that she got my full attention. But it was more than just the word; it was what her sister was going through. The encounter occurred just a few years ago. A woman was seated on a small couch next to the chair I was heading toward. She sat quietly, staring straight ahead, blankly it seemed. She glanced up with an expectant look as I neared and gave me a small smile of acknowledgement as she realized I was not the person she was waiting for. I returned the smile. Then she turned away, her face resuming its vacant stare.

For the first time in a couple of years, my friend Norm and I were finally arranging to meet for lunch. He lives a couple of hours south of me. A google search for a restaurant in between us turned up Mastori’s, a large restaurant-diner. When I clicked on their website, I discovered it had closed, a casualty of the pandemic. This was sad news since Mastori’s had been family-owned and operated for 90 years and was a New Jersey fixture. Known for their savory cheese and cinnamon breads that were placed on each table, Mastori’s was a favorite for families, local politicians, and patrons who came from far and wide. Even President Gerald Ford dined there. I hadn’t been to Mastori’s in many years. But reading the notice of its closing brought me back to a terribly embarrassing experience on my first visit there, many years ago.

“The essential joy of being with horses is that it brings us in contact with the rare elements of grace, beauty, spirit, and freedom.” Sharon Ralls Lemon

Eight years ago, when he was just five years old, our horse Flash became the newest member of our family. Little is more peaceful for me than spending time with him. I do love riding, but it’s also a joy just being with him, grooming, brushing, taking a leisurely walk side by side.

It all began with a small spot, a bit of missing paint barely an inch wide. I’m not sure how or when it happened, but a quarter-sized circle of paint had been scraped off the frame of my bicycle. I have been bike riding regularly for many years. I love it. And while this blemish didn’t interfere with anything mechanical, I thought I would get it touched up, just for aesthetic sake. I assumed a $5 tube of paint and 5 minutes of work was all it would take to have it looking like new. Well close to new, anyway.  

The harsh odor hit us like a ton of bricks just as the elevator door opened. I had never experienced anything like it before – an intense hyper-chlorinated sanitizing agent that was intended to neutralize the rankness of the hospital air, but instead the effect was compounded, burning my throat and eyes. I was there with Kevin, a fellow student whose eyes were also tearing up. Our escort, a facility manager, said quite straightforwardly, “You get used to it.”

Nestled on the bank of the Delaware River, Lambertville, NJ is such a charmingly scenic town. Local artists display their farm-scapes in art cooperatives. Antique shops overflow with history ranging from early American spindles to 1950s art deco pastel geometrics that appear simultaneously retro and futuristic. Topping off the allure are the wonderful restaurants, from D'Floret with their locally sourced vegetables to the Under the Moon Café and their scrumptious Argentinian meatloaf. One recent Sunday, Amy and I thought that a visit to Lambertville would be an ideal way to spend the afternoon. It was a mild winter day, perfect for brunch and a stroll. The Lambertville Inn is a real treat. The ground level terrace sits beside a serene canal and towpath, a peacefully picturesque setting shared amicably by bicyclists, hikers, and ducks. On this day we sat upstairs in the oak-adorned small dining room. But this story is not about the ambiance. Nor is it about the tantalizing fluffy three-cheese omelets or the heavenly seafood crepes. Or the attentive and friendly waitstaff.

In the late 1970s, I moved out of the apartment where I had lived with my parents for the previous 10 years. Amy and I had just returned from a month-long cross-country camping trip and were moving to Philadelphia together where I was to begin graduate school. At the same time, and finally empty nesters, my parents decided to leave Queens, NY as the sunshine and beaches of Florida beckoned. Soon after their move, during winter break, I flew down for a quick weekend visit. I took a late flight out of Philadelphia and arrived at around eleven p.m.

The three students, around twelve or thirteen years-old, stood awestruck, silently staring at the shoes, hundreds of shoes, haphazardly heaped together. This was no ordinary collection of shoes. All were about 80 years-old and deeply weathered, their cracked brown leather preserved in their uncleaned and fraying state, their rigidity diminished from the passage of time and the weight of the mound. Some were low-top boots, some women’s pumps, but most were nondescript and undistinguishable as belonging to one gender or another. After a moment, one of the students expressed precisely what the viscerally charged moment called for, saying as much to himself as to the others, “I can’t believe actual people wore those, walked in them.”

This past summer, I flew to Atlanta for a consulting project at a hospital. I hopped in a cab at the airport and headed directly to the hospital. As the driver entered the hospital’s long circular driveway, I gathered the documents I had been reviewing and put them back in my briefcase. The hospital, a tall, gleaming building, had recently gone through a makeover. I admired the flower beds adorning the walkway with a vibrant display of lavender and pink, bringing life to a building associated with illness. As I got out of the cab, I noticed that the woman exiting the cab in front of mine seemed to be struggling. A second later, I saw why – she was pulling crutches from the back seat. I walked over as she was regaining her stability and offered to help. What happened next is, well, you can’t make this stuff up.

I had just finished giving a presentation to students at the SUNY College of Optometry in New York City and I went to say hello to a colleague who is a member of the faculty and service chief of one of the college’s clinics. As I got into the elevator, a family entered just behind me – a husband and wife and their two young boys, who looked to be about six and nine years old. I noticed that the boys were wearing identical heavy, black-framed glasses with lenses that had a deep tint and prism-like appearance. The whole family had such a pleasant vibe about them, and the parents and I exchanged a friendly smile.