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.

A Year in Mourning - And So It Ends

My Kaddish year is over. Twelve months of Kaddish. Most often people recite Kaddish for eleven months. It stems from a superstition that Kaddish helps the deceased’s soul move on. I see the halakhah referring to a full year. If my father’s soul has moved on, whether after one month or eight, it does nothing to lessen my obligation to him and to myself.

And now it’s over. It seems like so long and only just yesterday. It’s been a difficult last month or so. Beginning with the High Holidays, about which I’ve been meaning to write. There’s so much to tell, but as the year began to draw to a close I found I needed to keep my feelings close to my heart. Unlike so much of the year, when my memories of Daddy ebbed and flowed, he’s been so ever-present.

Yizkor was not so difficult, even easier on Shemini Atzeret. The ritual pulls you through from one prayer to another. Though tears fell from my eyes, I knew, on Yom Kippur, that I had a talk to give immediately following, and so I did. And then I went on to the main sanctuary for Musaf. And as I drew my tallit, my father’s tallit, over my head, the tears began to fall, blurring the words. In years to come I will see the tear stains on the page and remember that day, that day when I stood alone, but embraced by my father wrapped in his tallit.

On Simchat Torah, I wrapped Keren in my tallit, taking hers for myself. She was cold, and my tallit is more substantial. The next time I donned my tallit, the tzitzit were braided tightly like I did with my father’s tzitzit more times than I can count.

And then the final month... While others who began with me finished their eleven months of Kaddish, I continued. These weeks went more slowly, trickling to their end. But end they did. How strange to recite Kaddish at Mincha, and answer amen at Maariv. But how much stranger to officiate at tefillot a day later, reciting Kaddish again, not as a mourner but solely as a rabbi. I am no longer a part of group, now standing outside, one of the supporters

But that’s how it works. Quietly, with no ritual to ground you. A candle is lit. A final Kaddish is said, and you return to life with you memories and hopefully mostly healed heart.

Chayyei Sarah - Finding Comfort Amidst Dispair

...He loved her, and Isaac was comforted after the death of his mother. (Genesis 24:61)

Chayyei Sarah is a significant parasha in my life right now. My year of avelut is coming to a close. Although my custom is to recite Kaddish for the full 12 months, I am almost painfully aware that 11 months ended two weeks ago, October 19, We marked the moment with the unveiling. And so, I very much want to write about finding comfort after death and my year of Kaddish. 

But I can’t.

I can’t because there’s a much greater thing for which we all need comfort. I need not lay out the crushing loss of 11 souls among the Jewish people, nor the fear and worry we felt waiting for news after Shabbat and for the names of the dead. How do we find comfort after this blow to our community? How can the families and friends of the 11 find comfort in the week of shiva and beyond? And what of the individuals who survived - the ones who wonder why am I still here? Or the ones who didn’t make it to shul that morning? And yet we, and they will. We will find comfort in the hundreds of letters being shared by Jewish organizations, religious institutions beyond the Jewish community, and government leaders or the thousands of personal notes shared on Facebook orTwitter. We will find comfort in the grief shared with thousands. And we will find comfort in the strength of those who stand up and say, “We will not be afraid. We will not react with anger and hatred. We will come together and support each other.”

Rashi teaches that as long as Sarah was alive there was a candle lit from erev Shabbat to erev Shabbat, there was a blessing found in the dough, and a Divine cloud was connected to the tent. When she died, they disappeared. Isaac loved and married Rivka. He brought her into his life and into his mother’s tent. When Rivka entered these blessings reappeared. 

This week it felt like our blessings were gone. 11 lights were extinguished last Shabbat, but they will return. They will return through support from within and outside our community, through love, our light, our blessings, and our connection to God.

Hazak v’amatz. Be strong and courageous.

Shabbat shalom.