Sixty Minutes, one of my favorite shows, brought a segment on one of my favorite people: babies. The question was, are we born knowing right from wrong? While previously it was impossible to get this information from a baby for obvious reason, Yale psychologist Kathy Winn figured out how to answer this age-old question.

Many philosophers believed babies were cute blobs with no thought pattern whatsoever. In fact most psychologists also believed that babies were mostly taught behavior rather than possess a fundamental set of core behavioral designs. Recent studies have changed all of that.

In a controlled setting, babies were shown a puppet show. In the first scenario tiger  tries to open the box and is helped by yellow puppy. Scenario #2, tiger tries to open the box and green puppy slams it shut. When an independent third party gives baby a choice of which puppy he/she prefers, 85% of the time baby chose yellow puppy, the helpful one. Conclusion: we are born with an innate sense of justice. This was even obvious in babies as young as three-months-old! Although newborns can’t grab, they can look. Such young babies tend to gaze longest, or fixate on what they like and dismiss what they don’t. In 87% of the cases, the newborn stared at the yellow puppy, the helpful one.

The next puppet show goes like this: green shirt bunny holds a ball. Tiger waits and looks at green bunny hoping he’ll pass the ball to him while yellow puppy doesn’t move. Instead, green bunny disappears with the ball. Next scenario. Green bunny tries to open the box. Yellow puppy slams it shut. When Baby is asked to choose, he/she chose yellow puppy. Conclusion? 85% of the time Baby feels that thieving-green-bunny deserves to be punished. Now it is confirmed, we are born with a sense of morality…or are we?…

Baby is given a choice between Cheerios and Gaham Crackers. Let’s say baby chose Cheerios. Now, to next puppet show: tiger is eating Graham Crackers and yellow puppy Cheerios. Then, tiger tries to open the box and yellow puppy slams it shut. Who did Baby choose? 87% of babies chose yellow puppy. It seems that our sense of justice goes down the toilet when there’s a choice between someone who has the same taste (in this case) as ours. Baby will allow bad behavior because this bad behavior was performed by yellow puppy who also likes Cheerios. In other words, we are born bigots! We wish harm to those who aren’t like us. We have a strong sense of biased to favor the self, the like-minded!

Interestingly, as we grow older things change several more time. Research shows, five and six-year-olds tend to be quite selfish. They will chose the option that gives them less tokens, as long as the other kid gets none! In other words, they’ll settle for less just to make sure the other kid goes without. However, at eight-nine-years if age, attitudes change significantly. Kids become more altruistic and giving. By the time they are ten-years-old, an overwhelming majority of kids chose to give more to the other kid and take less for themselves! Why is that?

The daily influences in our lives, parents, society, peers take over and suppress bigotry, bias (at least in most of us…). As much as we complain about society and its bad influences, well it seems it does do some good.

So know we know…we are born a bag of mixed nuts (no pun intended) literally. We are by nature fair, selfish, kind, biased, altruistic. And in case you thought any of these behavioral patterns leave us, think again. They are there, just below the surface, ready to emerge in any stressful situation. So relax, stay calm and enjoy life so that bigotry and biased never get the best of you.

When it comes to cars, I found out that we are…prejudice. Yes, we discriminate against ugly cars, beat up and damaged ones, even dirty cars. Here’s the story of my discrimination experience.

I drive a silver Lexus 450 hybrid, mostly because I like the idea of polluting less. It’s a comfortable car, and in my opinion, it also looks good. I’m one of many on the road, ignored but liked; I feel a sense of subliminal acknowledgement from the cars around me, a silent yet clear acceptance from my fellow drivers. When I valet park, it’s all good…because my car is respectable. Not a Ferrari, or a Rolls Royce, but a good sturdy vehicle. No one pays attention to my Lexus when I go to the grocery store, and that’s a good thing.

But then it happened. Everything was fine until I had an accident.

Bumping into the short concrete divider was not the problem. The problem was backing my Lexus up off the stump! The divider and I played Tug-a-War. We wrestled each other for my bumper, and, as I found out later according to the extensive damage to the bottom part of the car (whatever that’s called in mechanical terms), the divider won.

The SUV went to the shop.

“I have a car for you!” My girlfriend said. At first I was reluctant to take it. After all, my insurance pays for a rental. But then I thought, “Why not?” So I went to her house and picked up a white Honda Civic. It’s a cute car, quite pleasant to drive. Perfect. Except the car had been standing outside forever. Since it was an unused car, it was very, very dirty. No problem. A trip to the car wash and that’ll be taken care of. And so I left my girlfriend’s house, thankful for her generosity, and relieved to have transportation again. Not having a car in LA is tantamount to serious drug addiction. If you don’t have it, you need it badly. When you have it you feel good.

Before going home, my first stop was the car wash. I pulled up to the post and turned the engine off. I saw the man slowly move towards the car from a distance. I got out and quickly said, “Basic wash please”. Instead of writing out the slip, he looked at the car then at me and said in a heavy Hispanic accent, “This car has to be hand-washed because the bumper is falling off.” And then…I got “the look”…

I hadn’t noticed the damage when I picked up the car. I was simply happy to have four tires and a wheel. As long as I got around, who cares what the car looked like?…or so I thought. Because you know something is terribly wrong when the person who vacuums for a living snubs your car and turns up his nose while eyeing it. Then he proceeded to walk away, ignoring me and my Honda as if we were see-through.

And suddenly, I felt embarrassed. Up to that point, four tires and a wheel were fine, even a dirty car was fine; but being snubbed by the car-wash employee, that was too much. I got back in my dirty Civic with the floating bumper and drove away, all along thinking, “How am I going to endure such discrimination until my car is fixed?”

It was all over the place! No more courteous right-of-way. Gone the wave when I let someone into my lane. Bye-bye to the friendly smile at the red light. Cars seemed to avoid me like the plague…and my car looked like it had the plague since I couldn’t wash it.

I pulled into the parking lot at Whole Foods. The parking attendant stood nearby. A sudden urge came over me. I had to get it off my chest. And then…I did it…I couldn’t hold back anymore. I said, “I know my car is dirty, but this isn’t my car!” Not that he had asked me; not that he cared; not that he was even paying attention to me; but, for some reason, I had to tell someone, I had to disassociate myself from the messed up car. As soon as the words crossed my lips, instead of feeling relieved, I felt…stupid. Probably as stupid as the person who claims, “Some of my best friends are black!”

Shanghai is constantly growing and expanding. In the ’90, when a new skyscraper seemed to reach for the heavens every day, and a new overpass traversed the city to accommodate ever-growing traffic, something out of the ordinary, even supernatural occurred.

There are hundreds, if not thousands of pillars (I did not count them) holding up a maze of overpasses all over Shanghai. During the construction faze of one of them a major problem arose. At the intersection of Chengdu Lu (road) and Yan’an Lu construction came to a halt. The workers could not break ground to install a major supporting pillar. Why they could not break ground is anybody’s guess. Bulldozers and heavy machinery, despite repeated efforts, were not able to penetrate the earth in which the pillar needed to be planted.

Numerous attempts were made to pound and bang, bulldoze and drill in that particular spot. The heaviest of equipment failed to pierce the ground. Pillars stood on each side just fifty feet away. Drilling the ground beneath them had been as standard as the rest. In order to complete the overpass a solution had to be found and fast! Time is money and a deadline had to be met. However, all options involving heavy machinery were useless. The ground would not budge.  Frustrated and out of ideas, the architect turned to a Buddhist monk.

The monk examined the spot and said, “You have a dragon below ground. You’ve awoken and angered him. He won’t let you have the earth.” The architect asked, “Well, what can be done?” The monk replied, “You have to appease him.”

And so the monk sat at the site where the earth would not give way to man’s will. He meditated day and night for an entire week. No food, no drink, just seven days and seven nights, of introspection. When the time was up, he said, “The dragon is sleeping peacefully. Now you can drill.” Soon thereafter, the monk passed away.

The project was already behind schedule due to the stubborn earth and perhaps a pissed off dragon. But now the ground gave way and steel beams could be driven into the ground. The difficulties the construction workers had encountered before the monk’s actions were gone! They were able to build the supporting pillar as if nothing had ever prevented it.

The architect decided to honor the selfless monk. Whether his explanation was true or not, was irrelevant. The facts were clear: before the monk, they could not drill the earth; after the monk, the problem was lifted. He had given his life to help move the project forward, and for that the architect was grateful.

The pillar was adorned with nine dragons. In Chinese, the number nine is pronounced “jiu”, a word that also means old. Nine dragons represent a long life. The phoenix, sun and moon symbolize happiness and good fortune. They say that if you drive by the pillar and honk your horn or flash your bright lights, you will immediately feel a sense of peace. If you happen to be in a bad mood, honk and you will feel a lot better.

Like most people, I only caught a glimpse of the pillar while sitting in a taxi at a red light. My nephew quickly told me the story while he, his wife, their daughter and I waited two minutes for the light to turn green and the driver to accelerate. At a time when reality TV and skepticism rule the day, this story filled me with awe. In those two minutes, I felt transported to another world where spiritual enlightenment, folklore and mysticism all came together. And in that moment, I was reminded that not everything on this planet can be explained, and that every day brings a small miracle in one way or another.

For those of you who are still with me despite a month of silence, let me start by saying I sincerely appreciate your patience and your loyalty. A month of silence is the kiss of death for any blog, however a trip to China condemned me to silence since I was neither able to open my Facebook page, or my blog page. There is something called VPN that many people use to unlock most forbidden pages, but this information came too late.

I’ve been studying Chinese for five years, albeit once a week and with breaks (i.e. liver transplant #3, knee replacement #2). My sole purpose of going to Shanghai was to go to school and improve my Chinese, as well as visit with my nephew and his family who live there, in Pudong.

There had always been obstacles to visiting China. Finally, the time was right and all fell into place…with my six-month-old knee. Why do I mention this? Because Shanghai is a city you want to explore on foot. Spinning is my sport of choice. Walking…is not. It’s a pretty foreign concept to me. I drive my car to the neighbor’s house. The most walking I do is in the mall or the supermarket and that’s probably because I have no choice.

Yes, LA folks hike, but there’s a difference between hiking and walking. A hike is planned. It has a starting point, a destination, and is an exercise dedicated to loosing calories. Surely there are other types of hikes, but here in LA, hiking is a workout. Walking for the sake of it, taking steps aimlessly to be among the people, to feel, see and smell the city’s essence is something I’ve always avoided, especially with my new knee.

The first few days my knee was in shock as we walked to the subway station, the “ditie”, twelve-fifteen minutes (depending on pain) from my nephew’s apartment. I leaned on the handrail to climb and descend the steps leading to subway #2. More often than not, the cars were packed. The concept of personal space in China is very different to ours. Basically…it doesn’t exist. The subway ride made this infinitely clear. I, along with the others, was packed in the cars like a sardine in a can.

No one paid attention to the only black woman with big, curly hair and bright clothes squeezed among a sea of straight, black hair, and…cell phones. Every subway-riding, job-holding Chinese is buried in his/her smart phone or “shouji”. No one ever looks up. I was the only person staring at the ticker tape running across the top of the car and listening to the announcements that are in both Chinese and English, lest I miss my stop. It was the perfect distraction from my knee that ordinarily never supports me standing more than a few minutes at a time. A half-hour later I arrived at my stop called, “Jin’an su”, named after the Buddhist temple prominently standing between high-rises.

My knee punished me big time for standing so long. It swelled up like a pumpkin, causing sharp and dull pain. Speaking of pumpkins, with all the foreign influx into Shanghai, Halloween is slowly but surely becoming a holiday. The Chinese learn fast, and anything that boosts sales such as Halloween, is encouraged.

Back to my knee. I hobbled over to a seat in class next to Ray, the Korean who lives in Australia. Viktoria who is from Yekaterinburg, Russia, but moved to Shanghai a year ago on her own, sat across from me. There was also Shawn the American who lives in Barcelona, Spain but previously lived in Shanghai and was back to visit. Bryan was the other American. He decided to come to China and stay until he masters the language.

At that point I don’t know what made my knee hurt more: walking or sitting. Either way, after a three-hour lesson, it wasn’t happy and gave me hell. What my knee didn’t know is that I’m even more stubborn than it is. It might have had the upper hand the first two weeks; but the third and fourth weeks were mine! Every day, my knee and I travelled the same route to the Chinese school. I forced my knee to go to lunch with my classmates, to roam the city, and visit the calligraphy museum at People’s Square, a relatively long walk. I made it stand a lot and admire the artistic Chinese characters painted on parchment. The more I forced my knee to cooperate…I want to say the less it hurt but that’s not true.

I did however strengthen it. The fifteen-minute walk to the subway became ten minutes. No more holding on to handrails. Standing a half-hour in the subway carrying my heavy bag full of books, no problem! A walk to… wherever…bring it on!

By week four, I knew that my tactic had worked. My knee looked forward to beating its record getting to the subway; it jumped at the opportunity to walk with my nephew, his wife and my grand-niece around the neighborhood; it cherished visiting the huge malls and walking and standing for hours on end while shopping. Although…come to think of ir…that last particular activity, probably never bothered my knee…

A four-year-old boy in Germany ended up in a hospital with excess bleeding after an experienced doctor performed circumcision. This sparked a debate, which led the regional court of Cologne to rule the practice grievous bodily harm. In a narrow political vote (42%-45%, 13% abstained) the ban was upheld. Of course the story does not end here.

Let me start by saying, should German doctors stop taking out tonsils because of a botched tonsillectomy? The premise for opening Pandora’s Box seems shallow…but okay…

Circumcision consists of cutting the foreskin, which covers the penis. As with everything, there are advantages and disadvantages to the practice. If you’re circumcised you’re less prone to urinary tract infections, cancer of the penis and HIV. It’s also less of a hassle to keep clean. The disadvantages are excessive bleeding like the boy suffered and less sensitivity. As a woman, if this means more endurance, I consider that a benefit but who am I to say…

There are two well-know religions that practice circumcision: according to Judaism, it is performed seven days after birth of a baby boy. In the Muslim religion there is no specific date and therefore can be performed any time between seven days after birth to puberty (ouch!). And, for the first time ever, Muslims, Jews and Christians are all on the same side, against the ruling!

By prohibiting circumcision, German law and government is interfering with freedom of religion, and freedom of choice and individual rights. There is something wrong with this picture. As a parent, it is your right to raise your child as you see fit. If, for any reason whatsoever, say family tradition, you want to have your child circumcised, hospitals and doctors will no longer oblige. Some liberals say it should be the choice of the individual. Right…because there’s a grown man out there who will voluntarily submit to having his penis cut…

Then there are those who say, “get with the program and modernize,” about the religious practice. I wonder, do they feel the same way about the Catholic Church and a woman’s right to chose? It’s easy to point the finger at someone else when your own back yard is …antiquated.

Outcries from the Jewish and Muslim communities have prompted new legislation allowing the practice for religious purposes. But let’s face it, if Jews and Muslims are exceptions, this raises the issue of discrimination. We all know that children can be mean. A boy’s locker room or a swim meet will become a taunting/bullying party against the Jewish/Muslim boy who is different. Allowing JUST Jews and Muslims to circumcise their sons reeks of segregation and singling out in a society that hardly wants to open up that can of worms.

If circumcision were up to parents, as it had been until the new law passed in June, this practice would be part of society as a matter of fact, and therefore, the line between what was a religious decision and a secular one would be blurred.

Just so we’re clear, female circumcision, which is truly and factually genital mutilation should and must be banned in all societies and among all people. There is no comparison between male circumcision, the removal of skin, and female circumcision, the carving of her genitals in such a fashion (removing her clitoris) as to prevent orgasm forever.

Germany’s decision to ban circumcision may yet come back to haunt them. Like abortions back in the day, (and perhaps again in the United States depending on who we elect), parents might be relegated to visiting back rooms and shady practitioners to have their sons circumcised. It’s wrong to turn back the clock on any proven medical procedure because of a case that went wrong. Male circumcision has been around for at least a thousand years with no particular negative consequences. So what’s up Germany? A modern, uniquely growing economy that, because of one case, couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie?

I stood at the entrance to the Olympic Village. The guard looked at my badge and let me through. I was fifteen at the time, and a former athlete myself. Gymnastics, track and field and ballet had been part of my routine as long as I could remember. At fifteen, health problems might have prevented me from engaging in sports, but my passion for them persisted.

Athletes from all over the world roamed through Olympic Park. Their living quarters surrounded the Village, but the beautiful weather kept everyone hanging out, enjoying the sun. The atmosphere was magical. It was an island of harmony oblivious to the problems of the rest of the world. These were “The Happy Games,” as they called them, and indeed such was the case. Whatever else was going on outside the Park, inside enthusiasm and goodwill permeated the air. Back then the Russian Federation was still the USSR. Like the Chinese and Rumanian athletes, guards followed their every move. But even they got caught up in the Village game.

The object of the game was, who could collect the most pins from the many nations represented? Every athlete wore his/her nation’s pin. After starting up a conversation with a fellow athlete from another country, eventually it would lead to exchanging pins, which was perhaps the entire reason for the communication in the first place. The Russians and the Americans didn’t understand each other; however pointing and smiling and the word OK resonates with just about every human on this planet. Strolling through the Village, on my way to an event honoring Jesse Owen, the four-time, African-American gold medalist of the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, I passed several sweat suits covered in pins, mimicking and negotiating for more.

Athletes sat together in the cafeteria. It didn’t matter where you were from, there was no question that you were welcome at a table…and exchanged pins. Thanks to my badge, I visited one venue after the other, mostly during practice. The trainer of the American welterweight boxing team invited me to a match. At first I was hesitant, not sure I wanted to watch two men beat each other up; even the fight was amicable in a very competitive and exciting way. In those days, all athletes were amateurs. I remember thinking if only the whole world got along like this!

 Meantime, Watergate was well underway. A hundred thousand people protested against the war in Vietnam. Bombs exploded in London and Belfast. An earthquake killed five thousand in Nicaragua. Khrushchev and Nixon were talking nuclear disarmament, and tension was high between Israelis and Arabs.

But who cared? The atmosphere in Olympic Park was nothing but detent and peace, and sheer competitiveness. It   was   magical…Until September 5th.

On that day, I awoke to the devastating news that Palestinian terrorists had climbed over a fence and forced their way into the apartments of the Israeli athletes. They killed Yossef Romano and Moshe Weinberg after they wounded two of their attackers. They took nine hostages: Kehat Shorr, Andre Spitzer, Amitzur Shapira, Yakov Springer, Eliezer Halfin, Mark Slavin, David Berger, Ze’ev Friedman and Yossef Gutfreund. They were all subsequently killed in a botched attempt by the German government to free them.

One day was dedicated to a memorial service in honor of the fallen Israeli athletes. “The show must go on,” Avery IOC, the president of the IOC declared. Many athletes left; others stayed for the four remaining days of competition. Mark Spitz, the eight-time American gold medalist in swimming, was immediately flown home. Being Jewish, the IOC and the American delegation feared for his life. I returned to the Village, or better said, the ghost town, just to see. German soldiers stood guard throughout the Park. A few athletes rushed from their apartment to the dining hall and back. No one shared anything anymore. The place was somber.

Forty years have passed since the Munich massacre. I agree that the Olympics should be neutral. Politics have no place in sports. However, in 1972, hatred and politics breached the Olympic walls and caused the death of eleven (Israeli) athletes. No matter how neutral the IOC claims to be, this was an attack on its own. The IOC is nothing without athletes, and therefore they should publically commemorate this brutal and senseless event every four years, lest it happens again. Instead of honoring its fallen in London, the IOC chose to put its head in the sand like an ostrich. If it thinks this disgrace has gone away, it is seriously mistaken.

I slept very poorly that night. I awoke at 2am, and decided to watch a movie. Not just any movie. It had to be a Chinese movie because I’m obsessing about speaking fluent Chinese. Lots of obsessions these days, which is probably why I’ve been restless. Ang Lee’s romantic comedy EAT DRINK MAN WOMAN seemed perfect. The movie is delightful; An aging restaurant chef and his three grown daughters living in the same house, and sharing meals. Ang Lee is so good at telling a story where there really is none, at bringing out the subtle emotions of his players, of holding your interest when very little is going on.

At 4am, I fell asleep again. I dreamed of the Chinese father/chef from the movie, sitting in the back seat of a car with his much younger pregnant girlfriend. His middle daughter, the one with whom he always argued, was at the wheel. I was in the car too. We were on a windy road. There was no protection from an abyss on one side, or a gorge on the other. Probably not a possibility in real life, but very real in my dream.

The middle daughter was angry with her father, repeatedly turning her head back when she should have been paying attention to the road. My dream was quickly turning into a nightmare. The daughter glared at her father and shouted. The car swerved tittering on two wheels, nearly heading over the cliff, but just making the hairpin curve at the last minute. I felt myself getting restless in my sleep. The daughter continued to drive; suddenly, an unexpected wall appeared in front of us. We were headed towards the end of the road at neck-breaking speed. Doomed!

At the last moment the car was lifted in the air! Saved! It floated upwards, parallel to the red clay wall…but then…something was weighing us down. I looked out of the window and saw a monstrous creature with giant fangs, and claws digging into my knee and dragging the car down into the abyss.

Ouch! The pain was real, the monstrous creature, not so much. My new four-month-old knee likes to remind me that the orthopedic surgeon hammered out the previous prosthesis, just like you hammer a sculpture out of rock. Sharp pain comes and goes and when it comes, it hurts. I threw my eyes open into the fading darkness of the early morning. Really? I thought, could a designer cause me that much anxiety?

I tried to fall asleep again. But now my mind obsessed. It can’t be Herve Leger, I thought, fashion isn’t that serious…and why would it be Chinese? Or the movie?  Who turns a romantic comedy into a nightmare anyway? And my knee…I’m fine with pain, that’s not what would make me anxious…so now I’m obsessing over my obsessions. Nothing good can ever come of that by the shear nature of the dilemma.

I decided to revisit the EAT DRINK MAN WOMAN story in my mind, not the nightmare version, in the hopes of drifting off to the scene of the family sitting at the dinner table full of delicious-looking Chinese dishes with exotic names like “the wings of the Phoenix”. By that time, I guess I was too exhausted for any kind of dreaming because I awoke at the sound of the alarm clock reminding me that it was time to take medication.

What did I learn from this experience? For one, I won’t be watching EAT DRINK MAN WOMAN again any time soon, (thank you very much Ang Lee). And about my knee, in order to give it a good workout, in order to make it feel much better, I decided to head to the Herve Leger store on Melrose, on Rodeo Drive, in Century City, at the…well, you get the picture…

Germany, one of the most established and organized countries in the world is facing a serious case of organ transplant fraud. The trigger for this discovery is one transplant surgeon and one patient. It set off alarm bells, which has led to an in depth review of the German transplant system.

When I was a “new patient,” that is someone who, although ill, lived in a place called denial, my concept of friendship was quite limited. I truly believed that if my friends didn’t come to visit me in the hospital, then they weren’t my friends and I would never speak to them again. The problem was, the hospital where I lay was in a town 30 miles away from where my friends were. So, either I never speak to anyone besides my parents again, or I learn a valuable lesson.

I opted for the latter. The lesson was, GROW UP! Just because your friends don’t or won’t come to the hospital, it doesn’t mean they don’t care. In fact, even if I were lying in the same city as my friends, they didn’t have to show up. What I learned back then, was that visiting someone in the hospital, and being a friend, well, one has very little to do with the other.

Friendship should not be contingent on a checklist or obligations. Such friendships are bound to go sour, because they are tedious. There are no requirements in friendship, but rather various degrees of emotional connection depending on the friend. You would hope that your best friend would visit, and most likely he/she will; not because they feel obligated, but because they care for you and you care for them.

I have been very fortunate throughout the years and recently, with the love and caring my friends have shown me. I think it is only fair to acknowledge some of them, although this doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate well wishes from everyone. I do. I am thankful that you thought of me these past months. I sincerely am grateful for every kind word, little note, acknowledgment and greeting. All of it gave me strength. Thank you.

I want to point out in particular my children, Adam and Daniel. I am in awe how wonderful my boys were during this whole ordeal. Every day, one or the other, or both came to visit, brought food and sat with me. My wonderful children have grown up to be amazing young men. Thank you my boys, I love you.

When I was writhing in pain, Udi, Jonas and Emilia came to my rescue. They installed a machine that allowed me to freeze my leg (cryotherapy) as often as I needed it. This was invaluable. Without that machine I would probably still be walking with crutches. Udi, Jonas and Emilia, you guys hit the nail on the head and gave me the most relief I could hope for given the circumstances. Thank you my friends for doing this!

My housekeeper/friend Mayra was irreplaceable. The first 10 days after knee replacement she stayed at my condo. Every time I awoke bathed in cold sweat, she ran to get me a fresh shirt, walk me to the bathroom and cover me up again once in bed. If I got little to no sleep those ten nights, Mayra got none at all. Mayra you are family to many, but what you did those ten days, no one else would ever have done. Thank you Mayra, you are the best.

Maria, Jenny, Linda, Danielle, Bibi, Christian, Robert, Marlena, Zehava, Sidney, I was elated to see them all. Each visit felt like a breath of fresh air, a cool breeze entering my room, taking pain and setting it in a corner until they left. Thank you, my friends, for taking the time to come. I truly savored the relief.

Last but not least, I cannot say enough about my friend Muriel. We have been friends for 25 years and yet, I was never so happy for this long friendship until the months of March and April 2012 came along. Despite being busy with her own family of five grown children, she made my two months of illness more than just tolerable. She came every day with food and sat at my bedside. She took my mind off of pain, and engrossed me in a conversation that transported me out of my bed and into…life. Day after day, she called to ask what she could do for me or bring, and then showed up with bags of food.

We never spoke about illness unless it was I, venting. I must admit, the conversation was short because Muriel quickly changed the subject to something far from pain, frustration, and despair. When she entered the room it was as if I had changed the channel to cartoons or a nature channel or maybe comedy; something harmless, pleasant and compelling. Muriel dearest, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for alleviating and shortening a process that could have been ten times more excruciating. I thank you for everything.

Since the days when I thought friendship meant visiting me in the hospital, I’m now convinced that friendship is giving whatever it is you can give, and this from both parties. If my friends didn’t come see me way back then, where was my magnanimous side? Where was my generosity towards my friends? No wonder they stayed away, and thank goodness I figured it all out.

Let me start by saying that this, being my first public engagement, it is befitting that it would be in a hospital, and even more befitting, that it’s here at Cedars Sinai. Of all the hospitals I have frequented, (I used to say that i know cities not by their monuments, but by their hospitals and I’m a well travelled woman), Cedars is family.

Simply put, Cedars is my trusted companion with whom I have a love/hate relationship for over 27 years. Yes, Cedars and I, we go way back to 1984, when I was admitted for the first time.

My two miracle sons were born here in 1987 and 1988. You’ll have to read the book to find out why my boys were miracle babies. There’s a big story around that and I assure you, it has everything to do with making love to my then husband…those Israelis…they really do have some tenacious sperm!

I have visited my companion Cedars quite often since back then. The last time was…oh! about a week ago. My companion’s Emergency Room…I think there’s a chair with my name on it. When I walk in there, the nurses and volunteers jump up and say “YOU AGAIN!”

The plaza level coffee shop where I used to get my Madeleine cookies after a blood test never gets old…I mean the cookies never got old…because I ate them right away…, the blood tests… they got old and had to be to repeated…a lot…

And Saperstein! Lovely, state of the art Saperstein. Why go to a Four Seasons when the service is infinitely better at Saperstein? I have enjoyed the comforts of both the critical and non-critical care units of dear, beautiful Saperstein. OK…

Enough about trusted companion Cedars. Now to me.

My African American parents gave birth to me in Germany. I’m the youngest of five daughters and the least accomplished. I don’t have a Master’s degree like my two oldest sisters. I have, however, mastered survival. I’m not a lawyer like my three-year-older sister. But I have argued plenty of cases in my head to keep a positive outlook when my health was rapidly going south. I’m certainly not heading up a pharmaceutical marketing firm in Paris like my other three-year-older sister, yes they’re twins, but I am a thankful participant in marketing/clinical trials for plenty of experimental pharmaceutical drugs.

I grew up in a multi lingual household. My sisters and I spoke English with our parents, French at school, German with the neighborhood kids and Spanish during the summer holidays in Spain.

And, I just realized…by telling you this…all of a sudden, my eight languages don’t sound like a big deal anymore. Anyway, Chinese is my latest passion. If my sisters are all very accomplished, at least I can “outlanguage” them.

.I’m guessing you might be wondering why my African American parents would leave the Unites States to go to Europe, specifically France, two years after a major war. In a way I have to be thankful that this country discriminated against black people. Prejudice motivated my parents. Moving to Paris was their search for a better life and equality; it was their exodus.

Speaking of which, my father made a living in 1947 in Paris on the black market as a middleman for the Jewish cause in Palestine. He transferred diamonds from location to location. These diamonds were converted to cash in order to bring Jews to the holy land a..k.a eretz hakodesh. This particular story is not in the book, by the way. The narrative lent itself better to the story of my father before he left to Europe, when he worked for a company that provided arms for the Zionist cause prior to Israel becoming an independent state.

Unfortunately my father passed away at 93 before I got a chance to ask him the details of his exploits. And thus, a great action script has been lost forever.

While my father was doing his part in the birth of a country, my mother was laying the foundation for her daughters. Education, education, education was her mantra. The black sheep of the family that I was, I guess I heard medication, medication, medication. Regardless, as I was writing my book, my mother was always on my mind, and therefore, I dedicated a chapter to her being, her talent and her quiet strength.

Growing up in Germany, attending French schools was a wonderful upbringing. It would have been even better, though, if at twelve years of age, I had not kicked off my long, and illustrious career as a patient. Which brings me to my book.

I chose to write the book for several reasons.

Reason #1

Only after my second liver transplant was I told of the host of complications that had transpired during the six weeks I was in a coma. As more and more details came to light, I couldn’t keep track and decided to write them down. From a list of challenges while in a coma, it became a list of challenges in my life.

After all, I am the envy of every cat in town because I have long surpassed their 9-life limit. No wonder cats always want to curl up next to me even though I ignore them and don’t know much what to do with animals in general. They don’t have many pets in hospitals, you know, unless it’s a hospital-born bacteria, which I have also had the displeasure of knowing, and therefore, I’m much more comfortable around…needles.

Reason #2

After I had made this very long list of challenges, it only seemed natural to tell the entire story. Since you don’t wake up one morning and say “oh! I need a transplant!” I thought I would write about the years when I was pleading my case in my head to stay above…water, UGH…I’m so not a water person, but thank goodness am a gym person, and the need to exercise was very helpful both for my psyche and muscles and most importantly my survival.

Reason #3

And this is the most important reason. As I was writing, it became clear to me that I could inspire and help others with my story, but only if I was honest with myself. I quickly found out that being honest with myself is not an easy thing to do. It took me years, to go from writing a superficial chain of challenges, to exploring my deepest, scariest emotions.

Like peeling an onion, with each draft I cried…well that too! But what I was going to say is that with each draft I peeled off layers of thick skin. Emotions are a burden to illness. They sap what little energy you have; they distort your perception and keep you from doing whatever it takes mentally and physically to stay above water.

It’s like a soldier going to war. The worst thing he can do is whine about his situation because it distracts him from the job at hand. Well…in illness we are also at war with an invisible enemy that does everything in its power to bring us down and would succeed if not for modern medicine, science and technology and, of course, our own will.

This is where I made great use of good ol’ denial. I was miss denial incarnate. If a doctor said, “Your liver enzymes are high, much much too high, but your kidney functions are normal,” I would leave his office thinking “Yey! My kidneys are FINE…”

By writing this book, I acknowledged my vulnerability. Every time I sat down at the keyboard and pounded out lines, I found myself back tracking and correcting them. So, for instance, a sentence like, “I left the doctor’s office, got in my car and drove home.”

After weeks of reading this sentence or plenty like it over and over again, I finally caved and gave in to the truth, and then that same sentence became, “I felt ringing in my ears as I left the doctor’s office; I couldn’t reach my car fast enough. I drove home deep in thought, terrified for things to come.”

Admitting fear, giving in to my emotions scared the hell out of me, but felt good at the same time. The process of peeling away thick layers of I’VE GOT THIS! was therapeutic. If it was therapeutic for me, I thought, perhaps it could be therapeutic for others as well. We are all bound by similar emotions. What I felt during many years of illness would be no different than what someone would feel falling ill tomorrow. There was no question in my mind others could relate and maybe even gain from my honesty. Maybe they could find an alternate solution to their way of dealing with challenges. In fact, you don’t even have to be sick to relate. I happen to know first hand that when you’re writhing in pain, the last thing you want to do is read anything! It is our supporters and caretakers, people like you, which will benefit most from my story.

My book or my journey if you will, addresses more than just my fears. I’m not shy, and I certainly don’t shy away from giving my opinion on several topics: patient/doctor relationship; the virtues of exercise no matter how sick you are, and being active both physically and mentally; the importance of positivity in your thoughts and the people around you; and as much as everyone says educate yourself about your illness, I say not necessarily. Why, is in the book.

43 years of illness would be very boring without the wonderful times overlapping them. My story takes places on two continents, first in Europe and then in the US. Despite what I have experienced with my health, I’ve led an outstanding, rich and full life. I am married to the most amazing man who was by my side through transplants #2 and #3.

Boy, let me tell you, it takes a strong, and loving soul to stick around for all the “stuff” such illness brings. Uli, my husband, besides being my favorite movie/TV director of all times, is my rock. I think all the strength and willpower in the world can never be as compelling as love. What my dear husband went through…I have no words…he is my hero and he is one of a kind, the best kind. Some of these stories I share with you in my book.

I’d like to conclude by quoting a line from my book:

“There’s always another angle to a situation that seems overwhelmingly bad. It makes no difference whether you have a day, a month, or years to live, every health problem, fixable or not, is in reality, nothing but a point of view.”

We all have our package to carry. In my case the package might have been just a bit heavier than some, and no doubt lighter than others. Whatever it is you’re facing, I say grab illness by the horns, wrestle it to the ground, but don’t give it your soul! Four Livers and no Funeral is the name of my book and that is it’s message.