Routine Fosters Resilience In Roger Rosenblatt's 'Making Toast' When Roger Rosenblatt's 38-year-old daughter — a mother of three — died unexpectedly, he and his wife knew what they had to do: they packed up and moved in with their young grandchildren. In his new memoir, Rosenblatt chronicles his daughter's tragically abbreviated life and his grandkids' resilience in the face of heartbreak.
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Routine Fosters Resilience In 'Making Toast'

Making Toast
Making Toast
By Roger Rosenblatt
Hardcover, 176 pages
List price: $21.99

Read An Excerpt

When Ginny and Roger Rosenblatt learned that their 38-year-old daughter, a pediatrician and mother of three small children, had collapsed on the treadmill in her downstairs playroom and died from an asymptomatic heart condition, they knew what they had to do. They rushed from their comfortable life in Quogue, on the south shore of Long Island, down to Amy's house in Bethesda, Md. And stayed. Amy's children, ages six, five and one, needed them, and so did Amy's stalwart husband, Harris Solomon, a hand surgeon. The day after she lost her mother, Rosenblatt's granddaughter asked apprehensively, "How long are you staying, Boppo?" "Forever," he answered.

Making Toast — portions of which first appeared in The New Yorker in December 2008, a year after Amy's death — is the story of this family's heartbreak, but it is also the story of how pulling together and "creating a diversion ... as well as a differently constructed life" for both the children and the adults saves them all. Read it with a box of tissues at the ready.

Rosenblatt, an award-winning essayist for Time and PBS and the author of six off-Broadway plays and 13 books, including Rules for Aging and the satirical novel Lapham Rising, brings us right into the hectic new, multigenerational household forged by Amy's devastated survivors. He makes us weep when the children cry for their mother and laugh when he "reads" hilarious invented selections from The Letters of James Joyce to his autocratic, not-yet-two-year-old grandson.

Author Roger Rosenblatt with his grandson James. Rosenblatt told Melissa Block in an All Things Considered interview that he titled his book Making Toast because "it is a simple gesture of moving on." Ginny Rosenblatt hide caption

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Ginny Rosenblatt

Author Roger Rosenblatt with his grandson James. Rosenblatt told Melissa Block in an All Things Considered interview that he titled his book Making Toast because "it is a simple gesture of moving on."

Ginny Rosenblatt

Married for nearly 50 years, Rosenblatt marvels anew at his wife's selfless competence, taking the kids to school, making dates with other mothers on the sidelines of soccer games, helping with homework. He comments, "in sorrow, she is in her element. 'I am leading Amy's life,' she says in despair yet comfort, too."

He's more modest about his own contributions, claiming somewhat disingenuously that making toast is "the one household duty I have mastered." Yet it is clear that Boppo, as his grandchildren call him, not only provides stabilizing routines with his early morning toast and Word-of-the-Day, but necessary comic relief, leading ticklefests and cheers of "Boppo the Great."

And let's not slight his role as family chronicler. This stirring memoir — filled with loving memories of his only daughter at various stages in her tragically abbreviated life and a glowing record of his grandchildren's resilient development over a difficult year — will be an extraordinary gift to Amy's children someday. Almost as extraordinary as the gift of devoted care.

Excerpt: 'Making Toast'

Making Toast
Making Toast
By Roger Rosenblatt
Hardcover, 176 pages
List price: $21.99

LANGUAGE ADVISORY: This excerpt contains language some readers may find offensive.

The trick when foraging for a tooth lost in coffee grounds is not to be misled by the clumps. The only way to be sure is to rub each clump between your thumb and index finger, which makes a mess of your hands. For some twenty minutes this morning, Ginny and I have been hunting in the kitchen trash can for the top front left tooth of our seven-year-old granddaughter, Jessica. Loose for days but not yet dislodged, the tooth finally dropped into a bowl of Apple Jacks. I wrapped it for safekeeping in a paper napkin and put it on the kitchen counter, but it was mistaken for trash by Ligaya, Bubbies's nanny. Bubbies (James) is twenty months and the youngest of our daughter Amy's three children. Sammy, who is five, is uninterested in the tooth search, and Jessie is unaware of it. We hope to find the tooth so that Jessie won't worry about the Tooth Fairy not showing up.

This sort of activity has constituted our life since Amy died, on December 8, 2007, at 2:30 p.m., six months ago. Today is June 9, 2008. The day of her death, Ginny and I drove from our home in Quogue, on the south shore of Long Island, to Bethesda, Maryland, where Amy and her husband, Harris, lived. With Harris's encouragement, we have been there ever since. "How long are you staying?" Jessie asked the next morning. "Forever," I said.

Amy Elizabeth Rosenblatt Solomon, thirty-eight years old, pediatrician, wife of hand surgeon Harrison Solomon, and mother of three, collapsed on her treadmill in the downstairs playroom at home. "Jessie and Sammy discovered her," our oldest son, Carl, told us on the phone. Carl lives in Fairfax, Virginia, not far from Amy and Harris, with his wife, Wendy, and their two boys, Andrew and Ryan. Jessie had run upstairs to Harris. "Mommy isn't talking," she said. Harris got to Amy within seconds, and tried CPR, but her heart had stopped and she could not be revived.

Amy's was ruled a "sudden death due to an anomalous right coronary artery" — meaning that her two coronary arteries fed her heart from the same side. Normally, the arteries are located on both sides of the heart so that if one fails, the other can do the work. In Amy's heart, they ran alongside each other. They could have been squeezed between the aorta and the pulmonary artery, which can expand during physical exercise. The blood flow was cut off. Her condition, affecting less than two thousandths of one percent of the population, was asymptomatic; she might have died at any time in her life.

She would have appreciated the clarity of the verdict. Amy was a very clear person, even as a small child, knowing intuitively what plain good sense a particular situation required. She had a broad expanse of forehead, dark, nearly black hair, and hazel eyes. Both self confident and selfless, when she faced you there could be no doubt you were the only thing on her mind.

Her clarity could make her severe with her family, especially her two brothers. Carl and John, our youngest, withered when she excoriated them for such offenses as invading her room. She could also poke you gently with her wit. When she was about to graduate from the NYU School of Medicine, her class had asked me to be the speaker. A tradition of the school allows a past graduate to place the hood of the gown on a current graduate. Harris, who had graduated the previous year, was set to "hood" Amy. At dinner the night before the ceremony, a friend remarked, "Amy, isn't it great? Your dad is giving the graduation speech, and your fiance is doing the hood." Amy said, "It is. And it's also pretty great that I'm graduating."

Yet her clarity also contributed to her kindness. When she was six, I was driving her and three friends to a birthday party. One of the girls got carsick. The other two backed away, understandably, with cries of "Ooh!" and "Yuck!" Amy drew closer to the stricken child, to comfort her.

Ginny and I moved from a five-bedroom house, with a den and a large kitchen, to a bedroom with a connected bath — the in-law apartment in an alcove off the downstairs playroom that we used to occupy whenever we visited. We put in a dresser and a desk, and Harris added a TV and a rug. It may have appeared that we were reducing our comforts, but the older one gets the less space one needs, and the less one wants. And we still have our house in Quogue.

I found I could not write and didn't want to. I could teach, however, and it helped me feel useful. I drive from Bethesda to Quogue on Sundays, and meet my English literature classes and MFA writing workshops at Stony Brook University early in the week, then back to Bethesda. The drive takes about five hours and a tank of gas each way. But it is easier and faster than flying or taking a train.

Road rage was a danger those early weeks. I picked fights with store clerks for no reason. I lost my temper with a student who phoned me too frequently about her work. I seethed at those who spoke of Amy's death in the cliches of modern usage, such as "passing" and "closure." I cursed God. In a way, believing in God made Amy's death more, not less, comprehensible, since the God I believe in is not beneficent. He doesn't care. A friend was visiting Jerusalem when he got the news about Amy. He kicked the Wailing Wall, and said, "Fuck you, God!" My sentiments exactly.

What's Jessie's favorite winter jacket? The blue not the pink, though pink is her favorite color. Sammy prefers whole milk in his Froot Loops or MultiGrain Cheerios. He calls it "cow milk." Jessie drinks only Silk soy milk. She likes a glass of it at breakfast. Sammy prefers water. Such information had to be absorbed quickly. Sammy sees himself as the silver Power Ranger, Jessie is the pink. Sammy's friends are Nico, Carlos, and Kipper. Jessie's are Ally, Danielle, and Kristie. There were play-dates to arrange, birthday-party invitations to respond to, school forms to fill out. Sammy goes to a private preschool, the Geneva Day School; Jessie to Burning Tree, the local public school. We had to master their schedules.

I reaccustomed myself to things about small children I'd forgotten. Talking toys came back into my life. I will be walking with the family through an airport, and the voice of a ventriloquist's dummy in a horror movie will seep through the suitcase. Buzz Lightyear says, "To infinity and beyond!" A talking phone says, "Help me!" Another toy says, "I'm a pig. Can we stop?"

In all this, two things were of immeasurable use to us. First, Leslie Adelman, a friend of Amy's and Harris's, and the mother of friends of the children, created a Web site inviting others to prepare dinners for our family. Emails were sent by Leslie, our daughter-in-law Wendy, Laura Gwyn, another friend and school mother, and Betsy Mencher, who had gone to college with Amy. Soon one hundred people — school families, friends and colleagues of Amy's and Harris's, neighbors — comprised the list. Participants deposited dinners in a blue cooler outside our front door. Food was provided every other evening, with enough for the nights in between, from mid-December to the beginning of June.

The second was a piece of straightforward wisdom that Bubbies's nanny gave Harris. Ligaya is a small, lithe woman in her early fifties. I know little of her life except that she is from the Philippines, with a daughter there and a grown son here who is a supervisor in a restaurant, and that she has a work ethic of steel and the fl exibility to deal with any contingency. She also shows a sense of practical formality by calling Bubbies James, and not by the nickname Amy had coined, to ensure the more respectable name for his future. Ligaya altered her schedule to be with us twelve hours a day, five days a week — an indispensable gift, especially to her small charge, who giggles with delight when he hears her key in the front door. No one outside the family could have felt Amy's death more acutely. Yet what she said to Harris, and to the rest of us, was dispassionate: "You are not the first to go through such a thing, and you are better able to handle it than most."

Bubbies looks around for Amy, says "Mama" when he sees her pictures, and clings to his father. Bubbies has blond hair and a face usually occupied by observant silences. When I am alone with him, he plays happily enough. I've taught him to give a high five, and when he does, I stagger across the room to show him how strong he is. He likes to take a pot from one kitchen cabinet and Zone bars from another, deposit the bars in the pot, and put back the lid. He'll do this contentedly for quite a while. When Harris enters the kitchen, Bubbies drops everything, runs to him, and holds him tight at the knees.

Jessie is tall, also blond, with an expression forever on the brink of enthusiasm. Amy used to say she was the most optimistic person she'd ever known. She is excited about her hip-hop dance class; about a concert her school is giving in Amy's name, to raise money for a memorial scholarship set up at the NYU School of Medicine; about going to the Nutcracker. "Do your Nutcracker dance, Boppo," Jessie says. (Ginny is Mimi, I am Boppo.) I swing into my improvised ballet, the high point of which is when I wiggle my ass like the dancing mice. Jessie is also excited about our trip to Disney World in January, the adventure that Amy and Harris had planned for themselves and the three children months before Amy died. We speak of distant summer plans in Quogue. Jessie is excited.

Sammy is tall, too, with dark hair and wide-set, ruminative eyes. He brings me a book to read, about a caterpillar. He brings another, which just happened to be in the house, called Lifetimes: The Beautiful Way to Explain Death to Children. The book says, "There's a beginning and an end for everything that is alive. In between is living." The book illustrates its lessons with pictures of birds, fish, plants, and people. I lean back on the couch with Sammy tucked in the crook of my arm, and read to him about the beauty of death.

From Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt. Copyright 2010 by Roger Rosenblatt. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, USA. All rights reserved.

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