Jew contemplates suicide
sha...@comcast.net
lost her life savings in the Madoff debacle. Now she shares her
wrenching trauma in a Daily Beast exclusive.
Last Thursday at around 5 p.m., I had just checked on a rising cheese
soufflé in my oven when my best friend called.
"Heard Madoff's been arrested,” she said. “I hope it's a rumor.
Doesn't he handle most of your money?”
Indeed, he did. More than a decade ago, when I was in my late 40s, I
handed over my life savings to Madoff’s firm. It was money I’d been
tucking away since I was 16 years old, when I began working summers in
Lord & Taylor, earning about $65 a week. Not a penny was inherited.
Not one cent was from my divorce. I earned all of it myself, through a
long string of jobs that included working as a cashier at Rosedale
fish market in New York City in my 20s, and later, writing bestselling
sex books.
Before I reached for a bedtime Tylenol PM, I Googled the Hemlock
Society. I wanted to know a painless way to die.
When I hung up with my friend, I turned on the TV and began to scour
Google for news until the message became nauseatingly clear: Forty
years of savings—the money I’d counted on to take me comfortably
through the next 30 years—had likely evaporated in Madoff’s scheme.
THAT MOTHERFUCKER!! The soufflé fell.
I called Dennis, my consort of 16 years, and he canceled the dinner
guests. I took half of a very strong tranquilizer that I’d been
stashing for years in case of a death in the family.
My son, in his late 30s and my only child, called from California.
“You can live in the back house, mom,” he told me, referring to the
cottage behind his Santa Monica home. I was immensely grateful to the
point of tears. But I am not going to be a burden to anyone. I never
have been and I never will be.
I’d imagined living out my so-called Golden Years working on my art,
living in my East Side apartment, and God forbid having to hire an
aide should I ever need one. Now what will happen to me? The only
thing I have left is the contents of one small bank account I’d saved
for a rainy day. Terrifying thoughts of state-run old people’s homes
and those slow-eyed attendants who drug you and strap you to
wheelchairs suddenly became horribly vivid in my mind.
I had a great fear of being alone that night, and Dennis came right
over. He walked in the door and gave me the biggest bear hug of my
life and said, “Everything will be fine.” Dennis is a well-known
artist, but the art market is dead, dead, dead, right now.
I began to think about my options: I’d have to sell the cottage in
West Palm Beach immediately. I’d need to lay off Yolanda. I could
cancel the newspaper subscriptions and read everything online. I only
needed a cell phone. I’d have to stop taking taxis. And who could
highlight my hair for almost no money? And how hard was it to give
yourself a really good pedicure?
Then there is my jewelry. I’ve always collected nice watches and
pearls. In the back of my mind I’d think, “Buy good stuff because if
you're ever a bag lady, you can sell it.” It might have been a
rationalization then—but here I am now: The nightmare may be coming
true.
Before I reached for a bedtime Tylenol PM that night, I Googled the
Hemlock Society. I wanted to know a painless way to die. Would you
believe the Hemlock Society no longer exists?
The Endeavor
> Indeed, he did. More than a decade ago, when I was in my late 40s, I
> handed over my life savings to Madoff’s firm.
She is a fool. She should never have invested all her money in one spot.
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soc.cultulr.jewish