My parents divorced emotionally when I was five and I went to live with my mother. I saw my father every other weekend and we would talk and laugh and so forth. But my mother was the one I most liked and wanted to be with because she was such a strong woman who raised me practically on her own and trying to advance her self in business. However, my grandmothers also had a hand in raising me so I love them too.

MY FATHER’S LOVE On Labor Day, 1944, at the age of 18 months, I stood up in my crib, but immediately fell down. I tried again and again, with my father looking on in terror. The polio epidemic that ravaged New York City had come to Brooklyn. The March of Dimes put me in braces. The standard treatment was, “We’ll wait and see what damage is done when the fever is over.” After several months my muscles were still in spasm. The brace was changed to a cast. Around the same time all this was happening, my brother Brian was born, and my Grandpa Sam came to live with us after undergoing the first of many cancer surgeries. Times were tough in Brooklyn that Fall. My father had read about Sister Elizabeth Kenny, an Australian nurse who had successfully treated a polio outbreak among the Aboriginal people, and who was visiting New York City to introduce her treatment. He called every hotel in New York to find her, and when he got the right number, he spoke with her secretary. (I heard the story so many times from so many different people, that I know the conversation well.) Dad: “I need Sister to see my daughter.” Secretary: “Of course. Which hospital is she in?” Dad: “She’s not in the hospital any longer. She’s home.” Secretary: “I’m so sorry. Sister cannot see a patient in a private home. The AMA is giving her rather a difficult time, and she cannot leave herself open to more criticism. I’m sorry.” He asked again and was refused. The next day he noticed that I was “flicking” my hair back in a funny way_or at least that’s what he thought I was doing. When he watched me for another day, he realized that it wasn’t about my hair, something was wrong with my neck. And his terror mounted. He called the secretary again. Dad: “Please, she’s getting worse. Something has changed. I’ll do anything to get Sister to see my child!” Secretary: “I understand, Mr. Brody. I’ll arrange it if you’ll pick us up in a car, and then drive us back to Manhattan.” He borrowed a car, drove to Manhattan, and into the car walked a very imposing woman wearing a big hat with a feather. She sat in the front seat. The secretary sat in back. When he parked the car in front of our apartment building, Sister said, “The child’s doctor is in there, yes?” “No”, said my father. “I cannot treat her without a doctor present,” was the response. Daddy ran around the corner, and asked Dr. Suna, our family doctor, to come with him. Only then did Sister leave the car. She cut off the cast, threw it aside and voice booming, said, “This is not a broken leg, THIS IS POLIO!” Then began the first of countless “hot pack” treatments and massages that I endured for years. It was wartime, and my father had to get a St. Mary’s All- Wool blanket from the black market. It was cut into pieces 24 inches long and 8 inches wide. Several were put into a pot of boiling water and my mother, wearing three pairs of rubber gloves, wrung them out and carefully wrapped them around my leg. Dry strips of blanket were then wrapped around the wet ones, and a kind of plastic tablecloth wrapped around all of it. Sister had determined that if a muscle was in spasm and then immobilized, it had no place to go when the spasm had ended. She felt that wet heat and massage would give the best outcome. Those sessions were hard on all of us. Three times a day for over two years, we stopped all activity, cleared off the kitchen table, laid down blankets, applied burning hot wet wool on tender skin (made more tender each day), warmed the cocoa butter and massaged my leg. Then came the clean-up. I had a love/hate relationship with the process. I knew it would help, and my playmates could come in and watch, but it was really the beginning of a sense of my “otherness,” my complete difference from other kids-maybe even adults.

I lost both of my parents years ago - Dad in 1988, and Mom in 1993. I learned so much from each of them, and, ironically, the most valuable lesson - not quitting - I learned from each them in two very different ways. When I was a sophomore in college, I called home one Tuesday night in tears. I was ready to quit, and wanted to come home. My Dad was home, and he listened as I explained why (for my life, I can’t remember now what the problem was). When I finished, he said he would make a deal with me - he wanted me to stick it out until Friday, and if I still wanted to come home on Friday, he would drive up and get me. What happened? Well, I ended up staying and getting both Bachelor and Master degrees. My mother taught me the same lesson in a very different way. She was in poor health for much of her life, and following a heart attack in 1981, the doctors gave her six months to live. She informed the doctors that she wasn’t going to be ready in six months - and continued to prove them wrong for the next twelve years. Things were grim a few times, but she just kept coming back (we used to refer to her as the “Timex Mom” - she takes a licking, and keeps on ticking!) So now, whenever I find myself in a situation that makes me just want to QUIT, I remember the lesson I learned from two truly wonderful people that I was blessed to have as my parents. Pick one over the other? I don’t think I could, and I wouldn’t want to.

My Dad died last September and it’s been a hard time for me because I was very close to him though I didn’t get to really know him as a child because he worked on the railroad when I was growing up and would be gone a few days at a time. My Mom was very strict so when I got out of college I moved away and only visited since they didn’t like the fact I got married at 23 and they didn’t like who I married - over the years we grew closer but now I have regret that I didn’t make more time to get to know my Dad as an adult because he was such a great guy - I’m close to my Mom and I’m trying to help her through her loneliness so I guess I am not answering the question but it’s a tough one because I can’t choose between my parents - the question just reminded me that I didn’t let my Dad become that important by my own choosing reading some of the responses of people’s awful experiences makes my upbringing in a strict household very small and inconsequential and now having a teenage daughter who thinks I’m too strict and doesn’t want to be around me, this question makes me worry that she won’t think we were important to her either until it’s too late

Mom, I suppose. She was fragile and needy and divorced dad when I was 5. As the oldest child of 3, I learned early on about caretaking. So to the extent that her neediness contributed mightily in shaping this recovering co-dependent enabler, mom wins the contest.

the most influential people in my life have been my children. I see the future in their eyes and am awed by the impact I have on that future. I marvel at the part of me that exists in them and the part of them that is separate from me. They have taught me many things, but most importantly, that time is precious and life is pure joy.

I am the youngest of five children. My mother is dead but very much alive in our hearts. She had a gift of making all of us feel as if we were her favorite child. I miss my mom very much. She loved us unconditionally. She and I loved to go fishing together. To this day if I have a good fishing day, I think of Mom. When I am sick or having a problem, I miss not being able to call her. She never tried to solve my problems but because she was such a good listener, I always felt better after sharing my problems with her. Whether we we were watching a good KU game or an old John Wayne movie we always liked being together.

Neither really. My mother was too close to me in age and ultimately we thought of each other as girlfeiends, and my father abandoned us by the time I was 8. but my dear Dutch grandmother who moved in and took care of us while my mother worked really made me who I am, and who I am not. She had strict morals and a great sense of humor and taught me to drink Geneva gin at an early age while I learned to play Gin rummy with her in our cold water flat in Paterson, New Jersey, then the silk center of the world. Grandma had only gone to Grade three in public school, but she seemed to know everything. On Saturday afternoons the Metroplitan opera played on the radio, though none of us had a clue what it was about. But somewhere in my psyche opera became important to me. You could tell what day of the week it was by what room was being cleansed to its wall paperand by what was being served for supper. As poor and deprived as we were my memoiries are rich with humor, drama, good times and love. Bless her. did the theatre I was take to at an early age. today as Tony voter on Broadway I can only salute Nell Vander Linde who held us all together in a difficult age of Depression and then War.

I WAS CLOSER TO MY MOM DEFINATLY A MOMMYS GIRL! I WAS THE YOUNGEST OF 3 HAVING 2 OLDER BROTHERS. MY MOM PASSED AWAY IN 95 AND I KNOW MY DAD MISSED HER TERRIBLY AS SHE PASSED AWAY 2 WEEKS BEFORE THEIR 50TH WEDDING ANNAVERSERY. ANYWAY MY DAD AND I STARTED GETTING ALONG BETTER WHEN SHE PASSED AWAY. I ALWAYS KNEW MY DAD LOVED ME BUT NOT QUITE SURE IF HE LIKED ME. HE TOO PASSED AWAY IN 98. I MISS THEM BOTH QUITE A BIT. TREASURE THEM WHILE THEY ARE ALIVE.