A Year of Mourning - A Grandchild's Memory

A letter came from Keren this week. This is not a surprise. She's away for the summer, and is usually a pretty good correspondent. She wrote 10 the 10th of Av, the day we observed Tisha B'Av, the national day of mourning for the Jewish people. It's a day associated with multiple tragedies in our history. For Keren, and now me, one more.

Tisha B'Av is a difficult day. It fall in mid-summer, a time when waking hours are long and hot. The liturgy is longer, but does not fill the day like on Yom Kippur. Focus is harder. The day drags on. Keren wrote, "Last night, at Eicha, I realized that exactly two years ago was the last time I wrote a letter to Papa, right after you told us his kidneys failed. I don't think his death has hit me this hard since the shiva." we didn't know then, but that was the beginning of the end, an end that would take almost a year and a half. Perhaps it could be marked earlier, with an infection that led to the antibiotics, which led to the kidney failure. We could even look much earlier, all the way to his genetics. But, in truth, he was never the same, physically or emotionally, once he began dialysis.

It's led to a difficult week. I wonder what my father thought upon receiving Keren's letter. Daddy suffered from depression. It masked, to him, how truly loved he was. And so, this week, thinking of the human interactions and failings that led to the destruction of the Temple (at least in legend), I am also thinking of the interactions and failing that led up to my father's death.

The 10th of Av is exactly eight months following my father's death. 17 months after we told the kids. Four months to my father's first yahrtzeit. Over and over it just keeps knocking my on my ass. Constricting my heart. Bringing tears to my eyes. Clogging my throat. Filling my mind. Leading my own personal lamentation.

A Year of Mourning - Memory and Mourning

I’m more than half-way through my year. There are moments when I wonder what it will be like to have choices in my day. Of course all observance is a choice, but once made the path is clear. There are moments when I dream of sleeping in, of taking a break. And in all these moments I think of memories, memories of Daddy that come unbidden to mind. They float in from the ether, invading my mind, and invading my day.

Talking on the phone with Jesse, or writing to Gavi or Keren I think about conversations with Daddy. I end every conversation, every letter or email with “I love you.” I cannot remember ever hearing those words from my father. It didn’t matter. We knew he loved us. He showed us through so many of his actions, even through his words, though never literally. Years ago I realized Daddy never said, “I love you,” and I made sure to say it to him.  Every phone conversation, multiple times each visit, I made sure to tell him. I don’t know why he couldn’t say the words, but I wanted him to hear them. And I started saying them more and more to my children, my husband, my friends. I never felt hurt that Daddy couldn’t say the words; I was sad for him. He dealt with depression and frustration, and no matter how many time I told him that I loved him, I’m not sure he believed it. Perhaps he didn’t think he was able to be truly loved.

As I bought a subscription to Mirvish, looking forward to a year of performances, I think about my introduction to theatre and the arts. Daddy preferred opera or symphony. Movies were not his thing, but he’d put up with hours of good, bad, or mediocre tv to spend time with Russell and me. Mom would walk in and ask, “Why are you watching this garbage?!” But it was never him. It was our choice. Daddy insisted there be only one tv in the house. “If we’re not going to talk to each other, at least we’ll be in the same room, and you’ll have to talk once or twice an hour” as we discussed/argued over what to watch next. And so Daddy invades my television choices.

Today I finished Ilana Kurshan’s “If All the Seas Were Ink,” her memoir that follows her study of daf yomi, the seven year cycle of studying the entire Talmud. Daddy loved learning of all kinds. Discovering Talmud was a gift to him, a gift that was eventually taken away with his focus. I find the idea of daf yomi intriguing, and I wonder if I have the discipline to accomplish it. I’d like to study in Daddy’s honour. But even more so, I’d like to study with him, to live close by and spend a couple of hours a day working through the pages of Talmud. We’d never be able to do it. Daf yomi takes a focus we simply didn’t have, but also a willingness to learn on the surface level. It is impossible to delve into the page in any depth every day while still living life. We never learned that way. We’d pick a topic apart, examining it from all side; Daddy playing devil’s advocate, pushing, pushing us to deeper understanding and ability to explain ourselves.

I wonder what it will be tomorrow. Will I think of skating? Of vacations? Or something completely different?

Half-way through Daddy’s more in my life today than ever.

A Year in Mourning - Mid-Year Crisis

Kaddish is a labour intensive process. Every day. Three times (or more depending on how many Kaddishes your minyan adds). I am not a morning person. The biggest shock was early on when I realized I would never sleep in for an entire year. Add in an extra job this spring/summer and a busy life, and you have a perfect storm.

This is where I found myself last week. I’d been wanting to blog for a week, but when? As the temperature rose everything became that much harder. In just a month I’ve had three migraines. I don’t blame Kaddish. It’s lack of sleep combined with too much to do combined with heat and humidity, but the constant focus on minyan certainly doesn’t help.

And so there I found myself - hitting rock bottom. I knew I hadn’t been at my best. I rambled a bit in my d’var Torah. Then, after a long day, just one hour after minyan, I walked out of Beth Tzedec thinking, “I’d better check when minyan is at Beth Emeth,” followed by the other side of my brain remembering I’d just come from minyan. Three days later I was in the midst of my second migraine. It lasted three days. Day two dawned with me trying to sit up, to no avail. I could barely stand to walk to the bathroom. The next day was no better. I finally discovered a medication cocktail that took the edge off the migraine. I realized that sometimes it’s okay to take a break. Sometimes you realize this yourself. Sometimes your body insists. This week, as the humidity rose, the third migraine made itself known. As it grew, I entered a 20 hour day, difficult but rewarding. The difference this week was my willingness to ask for help. Although the day was full it was rewarding. There was time spent in study, I asked a colleague to cover minyan allowing me, as one person put it, to simply be a “Jew in the pews,” stepping in a few minutes late, focusing on my own tefillot instead of making everyone else’s tefillot happen. Those extra minutes made all the difference. The rain came, and the migraine broke. I was able to get a decent amount of sleep. And finally, Shabbat, at home with Sean, early to bed, not so early to rise. A perfect Shabbat afternoon was spent reading, napping, reading, a very late lunch, and shul for Mincha, seudah shlishit, and Maariv. It’s a new day, a new week, and shaping up to be another busy one, but realizing I need some moments, I hope a better one.

A Year of Mourning - Reflections on Minyan 3

One minyan morning the conversation turned to prayer - not the prayers we recite, but how are we kddash - how are we holy? How can we focus our thoughts to understand there is no greater love than that of the Kaddosh Baruch Hu, the Infinite? Yet I think of my father. I do not think of his love, though it was vast. Of all the things taken from him, I think the most frustratrating was his ability to pray. He couldn’t stand, but worse, he couldn’t focus. Daily prayer was something he came to late in life. It opened and focuesed his day. But in the last few years prayer became more and more of a chore.

One of the things people remembered aboutr Daddy was his willingness to make a minyan. Even before he prayed regularly, it was a value of his. One bad weather nights he’d pile us all into the car. With four, we were almost half a minyan. We could make the difference to someone saying Kaddish. Even that was taken from him. Travel was hard, even only to the shul. He couldn’t get out to talk to people, and he could no longer longer read our tefillot to speak to God.

A Year of Mourning - Father’s Day

I’ve been so busy lately there’s barely time to think. My two jobs became three in April, plus being COO of my household, which could be a full time job itself. Yet I’ve fallen into a routine. I think more of Daddy each day. Perhaps the pain has faded enough that I can let down the barriers to memory and thought. Little things each day remind me of him. I say things like, “My Dad used to say...” “Papa would have said...”

I think of the lessons he taught me. Theology. Ethics. Today for hi was just another day. He didn’t like Father’s Day, or days like it. We didn’t need one day to appreciate fathers (or mothers or each other), that was something we should do every day. I remember Valentine’s Day. He used to shop generously for Valentine’s Day gifts. I remember a special chocolate cameo and stuffed animals. Then one year he came home announcing that this was a day not for us, not for Jews. We didn’t need one day to show we loved each other. We needed to show that regularly. And he tried. Though he was aggravating and intransigent at times, he was a generous year-round gift giver.

Today I am reminded of Daddy - on the radio, internet, newspaper... But I will think of him no more than tomorrow or the next day or the next.