Shiva has just ended and we are meant to get back to “normal.” What is normal life these days? I wonder, as we leave the cemetery.
I know that nothing will ever be the same again. How can it be? But I do know that we will grieve for what we have lost, and it will take time, more time than we would think, and definitely more than we would like.
To my dear readers, I have greatly appreciated your prayers for Yishai ben Shayna Miriam, my precious three-year-old grandchild who was diagnosed with an aggressive malignant brain tumor only six short months ago.
What are we meant to learn from this? I ask. I wondered how my gorgeous little boy with the most beautiful eyelashes in the world and his most adorable swagger as he walked confidently into our apartment could be so sick?
I don’t ask why. There are no answers to that. I never thought that one MRI after a month of radiation could look so good and the next MRI, only one month later, could look so bad. Even when you know the prognosis from the beginning, it is nonetheless a painful shock.
While we did not get the big miracle that we all had hoped and prayed for, we were blessed to have many minutes, hours, days, and even weeks of joy and smaller miracles. I am grateful for each one of them. Each is a gift.
Our sweet pea was able to let people know exactly what he needed and what he didn’t want. A song, a book, a toy. He was so happy when he visited his gan (preschool) and was Abba shel Shabbat (Shabbat party father). He smiled as he gave names to his IV pole and his wheelchair, and his laughter filled us with such joy as we laughed along with him. He had been through so much but taught us what we needed to know in his three-and-a-half short years.
Sitting shiva for the second time in nine months
Yishai died in his sleep, at home in his own bed, and holding onto his parent’s hand. Having been a member of the hevra kadisha (Jewish burial society) for many years, I can only say that he was the most peaceful looking and angelic child I have ever seen. That in itself is a gift.
It is somewhat surreal that as the coauthor of a recently released book on death and healing, I unexpectedly found myself sitting shiva for the second time in nine months.
To clarify, this time I was not exactly sitting shiva, because as a “savtie” (grandmother), I am not one of the seven traditionally recognized first-degree relatives. We disenfranchised mourners, as we are referred to, are actually “standing shiva” (omdim shiva). While not having an official seat among the mourners, we are nonetheless often the ones standing to serve and provide for the “official” mourners, while we ourselves grieve.
Given that shiva was over an hour away from my home, I was surprised and deeply appreciative that I also received so many visitors. Disenfranchised grievers are often the spouses, children, grandchildren, in-laws, exes, girlfriends, and others closely connected to the mourners.
In my case, I not only grieve for my own loss of a grandchild, but I watch with pain as I see my children in such angst as they go through the absolute worst loss imaginable – that of losing a child.
Things don’t always go the way we would like them to go. As I have said previously, we may not have a choice over the package that we are given in life, but we do have a choice as to how we deal with that package.
I have watched this past year as my children have lost three of their army comrades; dealt with the sudden death of their father; dealt with a newborn baby who visited the ICU after her birth; coped with the war and endless days of miluim (reserve military service); and then experienced the steady decline of their son. Any one of these things is already too much.
Yet while I have witnessed their tremendous sadness, I have also seen such incredible strength and love. Family and friends have been strongly supportive every step of the way, and my children and I have bathed in the tremendous love of two kehillot (communities) – both with young and older members, who offered rides, cooked, cleaned, schlepped for hours, babysat, ran errands, flew to another country to expedite a definitive diagnosis, and were simply always there, day and night, in ways we never could have imagined. This is who we all are, Klal Yisrael, and we have so much to be proud of and grateful for.
I know two things with certainty. No one knows how long any of us have in this life. We cannot predict the length of our days, and perhaps that is a good thing. Life can be short, too short, and we must love, protect, and comfort each other as if each day could be our last. We must forgive and let go of the “stuff” that gets in the way. At the end of the day, it won’t matter.
The second thing I know is that my husband left our family and others far too soon. I understand it now. I believe that perhaps he needed to go first so that when our Yishai would strut through the gates of heaven and in his most confident voice imaginable say, “Where’s Zaydie?” Zaydie would be there to sit him on his lap, give him his most reassuring hug, and say, “Here I am, my sweetie. I am right here for you, now and forever. I love you.” And all would then be okay. As I close my eyes, I am greatly comforted by this image.
As we have begun to learn how to live without my husband, we too will have to learn to live without Yishai’s physical presence. But his most precious smile in the world and his kisses and love will be ours forever.
Does that give us comfort? Maybe for now, a little. I do believe that we are all here for a purpose. Maybe some of God’s most treasured and beloved gifts – our loved ones – fulfill that purpose earlier than we would ever want. They are here on loan to us. Sometimes God needs to take them back.
Yishai had the most beautiful big blue eyes imaginable. In his death, he, too, was able to give to others in a way that for us was very meaningful. We are grateful that he was given the opportunity to donate his corneas – one to a soldier and one to a young woman. Our family are all organ donor card-carriers.
I now ask of you another favor.
Please ascertain the wishes of your loved ones and let them know yours and consider signing an organ donor card today so that when the time comes, ad mea ve’esrim, you, too, can offer others the gift of light and of love.
The writer is a licensed clinical psychologist in private practice in Ra’anana and coauthor of The Jewish Journey through Loss: From Death to Healing (Koren Publishers). She has written about psychology in The Jerusalem Post since 2000 and specializes in trauma, loss, grief, and bereavement. batyaludman@gmail.com, drbatyaludman.com
Source:
www.jpost.com
