Did I Mention I Started Daf Yomi?

January 5th began a new Daf Yomi cycle. Daf Yomi is the practice of studying a double-sided page of Talmud every day. It’s a fascinating and difficult discipline, taking 7.5 years to complete. Talmud is usually studied in great depth, with commentary and discussion. It references itself and other texts, and this quick study does not allow for time to really dissect a text that you can learn for days and still be on the first paragraph.

For many years I thought I’d never be able to do such a thing. But with the advent of new technology, now I can carry my daf with me in PDF form. My ipad always knows where I am.

And so I came to this piece, “One whose deceased relative is laid before him is exempt from reciting Shema” (B. Talmud Berakhot 17b). This is as far as I got. And then I stopped to live this text with my mother’s death. For three days, I didn’t pray, focused instead on the mitzvah of caring for my mother in death. How strange it was to recite Mincha after the funeral, stopping in the Amidah, my breath catching as I remembered to no longer recite my mother’s mane for healing.

Now, ten days later, I’ll start again ten pages behind. We don’t study text in aninut or shiva. Two daf a day, and I hope to catch up. Meanwhile, so much to do, so little time, but with a renewed focus and dedication. 

Kaddish - Starting Again

Weeks or months, they said. But here we are again. Somehow I’m not prepared to begin this cycle again. I was more mentally prepared when my father died. Mom had pancreatic cancer. What was I expecting? But clearly I was expecting, because I’m not prepared to begin again.

With any death there are moments that are overwhelming. The first morning Amidah after the funeral when I no longer added Mom’s name to the list of the sick in my personal prayers. Walking into my shul for Shacharit the morning after retuning home. I stopped in the parking lot and simply cried. I’m just not ready to do this again. There will be so many more moments. I have Hamilton tickets. This week is my daughter’s senior play. Two children celebrate graduations this year. There’s a wedding in the spring. What else will I sit out waiting for my new normal to assert itself, the new normal in which I can’t call Mom to tell her about my day, my work, or the antics the kids got up to.

I cry at Kaddish. Every. Time. It’s just a few days, but it shows no signs of abating. I was stoic for Daddy. But why? Why don’t we cry? Why don’t we show our pain, our sorrow to our communities? Shiva and Kaddish are for the mourner, but they are also for the community to rally, to be its best self, to show support, for those are the moments that really matter.

So I travel with tissues, but each day I use one less. And soon, I know, ready or now, this cycle will be my new normal.

Waiting For the Call - a Move to Hospice

Note: I intended to write a very different entry, which may yet get written. Sometimes writing writes itself. This is one of those times.
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Following Kaddish for my father, I took a break. I always thought I'd get back to my blog, but, somehow, I didn't. Until today.

This post has been a while in the making. Not only is this a form of sharing, but that sharing is a way to process what's going on. Whether trauma or joy, sometimes the emotions and/or thoughts bubble up, and need an outlet.

So here we are.

Life is not perfect, but sometimes it can be charmed. And so it has been for us. Definitely not perfect, but very lucky. Two New Yorkers meeting in LA, barely dating, but fast becoming close friends, we began dating only months before becoming engaged. Friends (at least one, Dan) thought we were crazy. But we knew. Twenty-six plus years and going strong. We have wonderful children (not without issues, but we can talk ADD, anxiety, and depression later). We've worked and lived in amazing places - California, New York, Hawaii, North Carolina, and Ontario. We have friends whom we count as family.

And so we are blessed. I hold this knowledge close for perspective as I push on through this year.

In April my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Not two years after my father's death, she was just getting her life in order, finding her way, and feeling comfortable. Then - Cancer, pancreatic.

Chemo. Radiation. More chemo. Then a break. Building up strength. September brought us news she was driving again. She was going to her clubs and programs. She felt good. The tumour shrunk significantly. We knew there would be more, but breathed a sigh of relief, that deep breath you don't even realize you're holding.

November. The pain was back. My brother was having back surgery. I was scheduled for a full hysterectomy. My mother's first thoughts, "Please God, don't let me die. My children can't sit shiva right now." (Yes, really. Those were her first thoughts.) In just a few weeks it all went sideways. First Russell's surgery. Thank God, successful. Then fluid in her lungs. Drained twice. Two weeks of rehab to gain back strength. My surgery. Also, successful (still recuperating). Less than two weeks after my surgery I drove to NJ with the kids to ensure they could see her. She was weak, but gaining.

We arrived home late December 26. December 30, more fluid was drained. December 31, Mom couldn't get out of bed. Overnight, the fluid returned. And that was it. No more procedures. She was done. Somewhere as that decision was being made, I returned to NJ. After six days in the hospital, Mom returned home to hospice care.

And we're not there. Mom has other family. She has wonderful aides, who must be among the lamed-vavnikim. She has hospice workers who check on her. But we're not there. Her children and grandchildren are too far to be present. Each with our own recovery, we've been gone from our jobs too long. And so we push on. We push through.

But we know, it's not enough. We're going through the motions. Funny, my mind said the the last sentence, but my fingers typed, "through emotions." That's what it is. motions and emotions. Perspective and dreck. Thanking God for blessings, but wondering when the other shoe could drop.

So I hold my children. I laugh with my friends. I work hard. And I wait for the call.