Tag: Grief

Ashes to Ashes

Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.

When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked.  I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)

The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly.  I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.

One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.

I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.

So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.

I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”

I looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”

“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”

I have a better understanding now.

I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.  

After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.

When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.

As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan

November 15th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.

Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.

Gary clearing ivy
Aunt Clair’s memorial stone

The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.

We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.

The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.

Walking south in Riverside Park
Statue of Eleanor Roosevelt

Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.

We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.

*This is where I found the information: https://portal.311.nyc.gov/article/?kanumber=KA-03480#:~:text=New%20York%20City%20Parks%2C%20including,the%20site%20of%20cremated%20remains.

An Unveiling

We gathered at Riverside Cemetery in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. In Jewish tradition, a year or so after a person is buried, you have an unveiling – literally the unveiling of a headstone or footstone that is the marker commemorating the individual’s life and death. Though it has been less than a year since my mother passed, my family gathered to observe this ritual for her on Sunday, November 17th, one day after what would have been Mom’s 91st birthday.

Photo by my brother, Mark Brody

19 of us stood around her grave on a brilliantly sunny day, unusually warm for mid-November in the northeast. It was appropriate weather given Mom’s sunny disposition (she was an eternal optimist, though, for better or worse, she shared her fears and complaints with me). She is buried between her mother, my Nana, and her husband, my father. The plot is part of an area that was established by the burial society founded by immigrants from Strickover, Poland where her father was born. Ironically, he is not buried here, he rests in Florida. But, other family members surround Mom, her brother, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is something comforting to me about them all being together.

We began the ceremony by reading the portion of Ecclesiastes that tells us so eloquently that to everything there is a season – reminding us of the cycle of life. Then we uncovered the stone which reads:

Feige M. Brody

Nee Spilken

November 16, 1933 – February 27,2024

Cherished Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Aunt

Life-long Learner

Standing beside me were representatives of all those roles – her children, brother, sister-in-law, grandchildren ( a great-grandchild, too), nephew, nieces, and great-nephews.

I read these words: “On behalf of all of us, we consecrate this memorial to Feige Brody as a sign of our eternal love and devotion. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.”

The cemetery had provided a booklet with selections that could be read, and it offered the following passage which I am transcribing here because I thought it was insightful, comforting and appropriate and might be helpful to others who are grieving a loss:

“We gather here today at the final resting place of our beloved mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, Feige to unveil this grave marker dedicated to her memory and to call to mind our cherished memories of her. When Feige passed away, we assembled here to pay our respects. At that time our grief was deep, and we felt intensely the pain of loss. Now, with the passage of time, the pangs of our initial grief have softened, yet we still feel sorrow in our hearts whenever we remember her.

Jewish tradition teaches us that those memories of Feige, which each of us cherish, can provide us with a measure of comfort. Those memories also serve as a form of immortality that comes to those we love when we remember them, and when we live our lives in emulation of the virtues they taught us by example.

Our presence here today is already an indication that Feige has achieved that immortality that comes through remembrance. Our presence is also a sign of the respect and admiration in which Feige is held by us. We still feel an emptiness in our lives when think of her because she played such an important role in each of our lives as a beloved family member and friend to many. Feige was devoted to us as we were devoted to her, a relationship of love and affection that we recall today.

Throughout the months since Feige passed away, we have each had occasions to remember the impact that she had on our lives.

We are comforted by our memories of the joys she brought to people and by the contribution Feige made to the betterment of our world.

In the biblical book The Song of Songs we learn that “The bonds of love are stronger than death.” Our memories today prove the truth of that teaching.

Even though Feige is no longer present in person, the love that we shared and the way our lives were touched by her continue to be felt. The pain of loss and separation is the price we have to pay for the years of Feige’s love and devotion.

Therefore, it is with sorrow, yet at the same time with a deep sense of gratitude, that we thank God for the years during which we were privileged to have had Feige as part of our family’s life and as a member of our community. We thank God, as well, for the love that bound us together with Feige in life and that inspires our cherished memories. It is with these thoughts in mind that we now pay tribute to Feige by dedicating this grave marker to her.”

That passage provided comfort to me. I am consoled by the notion that we attain a measure of immortality by being remembered – it helps me to reconcile the loss of my mother and father, as well as other people who I have loved in my life and still think of regularly. And, it is meaningful to me to think of how, by carrying forward their values, by emulating their integrity and generosity, I am helping to preserve their legacy. Those thoughts help me to come to peace with my own mortality. Hopefully I will have touched friends and family in a way that merits remembrance.

After reading that passage, we said a concluding Hebrew prayer and Uncle Terry read a touching poem he had written in tribute. Aunt Barbara, as a self-described “out-law” welcomed into the family by Mom, offered her heart-felt perspective on Mom (and Dad’s) generosity and the importance of our family bonds. Terry noted that he had Barbara would, when the time came, rest in this same area of the cemetery, just across from where we stood. I said a silent prayer that that would not be any time soon.

Another Jewish tradition when visiting the grave of a loved one is to place a rock on the marker. This is to signify a visitor’s presence, that the person who has passed has not been forgotten. Several years ago, when we gathered at my father-in-law’s grave, my sister-in-law Doreen painted some rocks with pictures of things that she shared with her Dad or represented him. I thought that was a wonderful gesture. I decided to do that for my parents. I painted one rock to look like a bookshelf with items my dad read regularly: Economics, Puzo (he loved The Godfather and read it multiple times), L’Amour (he loved westerns) and History. I painted another stone with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (my mother’s favorite of her novels, and she read Austen every summer until dementia made that impossible) and a final stone with a blueberry bush (when my parents lived in the Catskills and the grandchildren came to visit, they went blueberry picking and baked muffins). I felt good placing those rocks that embodied precious memories, knowing that they would sit there for a while at least before the elements wear them away.

No Spilken/Brody gathering would be complete without partaking of food. So, we adjourned to the diner that was just outside the cemetery. Though the service was painfully slow, and we had to wait, and the orders got mixed up (no day goes by without some aggravation), we enjoyed each other’s company before going our separate ways and returning to our lives  – some in New Jersey, some in Massachusetts, some in Connecticut and the rest in Albany, New York. Hopefully our next gathering will be a happier occasion, but I am left with a feeling of warmth, believing that Mom and Dad rest easy knowing that our familial bonds are strong and that we are doing our best to live out their values.

Aging with Grace

I am gaining yet more respect for older folks. As I am aging and approaching my 65th birthday, I realize the high price we pay for getting older, and I am not referring to the physical challenges we face.  So many losses are endured, it is hard to fathom.

It is expected that we will lose our parents – that is the life cycle. Some, like me, are lucky to have had them for much of my adult life. Dad died when I was 45 and Mom just passed. Others aren’t so fortunate, and it is painful no matter the age, but at least we understand that it is the natural order of things.

I think about my mom and the losses she endured as she got older. Her husband, her brother, sister, and best friend, not to mention other friends and family members. Yet she persevered, she maintained interests, she sought joy, she smiled a lot. She also didn’t back away from those who were ill – she was fully present for my dad, as well as others. I don’t think everyone is able to do that. Some might get bitter or shut down. How could you not want to insulate yourself?

Death is part of life. Maybe grieving is a constant, on some level. It is just part of the mix of emotions we experience all the time. It is the price of loving people. After all, if you protected yourself from loss, you would be depriving yourself of friendships and connections.

I imagine the reason for the death makes a difference in how one processes it. All the losses that my mom faced in her later years came about because of disease. Our family has very limited recent experience with deaths due to violence, addiction, suicide, or an accident. Those bring a special pain – the kind that can permanently change the trajectory of the survivor’s life. We carry the generational pain of the Holocaust, but that is a different kind of grief, too.

There is a sort of joke that says no one gets out of this life alive. The truth is I have not made peace with that idea. I know it intellectually, but that doesn’t mean I have accepted it. I need to. It won’t change the anguish I feel when someone I love dies or is suffering, but maybe it will help me to not waste time asking why.

I can’t accept that God is making individual choices about who lives and who dies, or how they die. It just doesn’t make sense to me to believe that a higher power is invested in that, or would knowingly be so cruel, or has that detailed a plan. I suppose even if there is a God and even if s/he were making those decisions, we wouldn’t know the rationale anyway. It isn’t like good people don’t suffer and bad people do – it doesn’t work that way. So, either way, it may be best not to torture ourselves looking for an explanation for someone’s suffering or premature death. It just is and we need to move through it as best we can, becoming more compassionate toward each other knowing how hard life can be, and seeking joy, meaning and connection where we can find it. I think my mother and father-in-law, in particular, modeled how to do it. I will try to follow in their graceful footsteps.

From Rouses Point, Lake Champlain…appreciating the beauty all around us

Silverware and Memories

I don’t know why but I think of Mom’s silverware as I stare out the window over my sink. My stomach clenches. I feel an ache; a sense of loss.

A week or so ago Mark and I brought some things, jewelry and said silverware (which upon closer inspection was silver-plated) to a place where they bought and sold gold and silver. No one in the family wanted these items – we had offered it far and wide with no takers. So, we decided we would see what we could get for them. All told the silverware came to $6.51. The woman who took it explained that they would melt it down and extract what was valuable, which wasn’t much, or we could take it back and try to sell it ourselves.

We could have cleaned it up, it was badly tarnished, and sold it on eBay or in a garage sale and perhaps gotten more, but that was more effort and time than either of us were willing to give. We decided to take the money. I think it was the right decision.

I realize I am not actually sad about the silverware; I understand why we did what we did and that if I kept it, I would not be happier. It is the loss of my mother, who valued that set, who took it as she moved from place to place, that I grieve. My mother liked pretty things. She set a lovely table. She used her ‘fine’ china – I’m not sure how fine it was – and silver when she entertained. When she served tea, she chose from one of many beautiful pots and cups she collected over the years. It gave her pleasure. I don’t tend to do that. I try to present food nicely when we have guests, but I don’t put the same effort into it, and I don’t enjoy it the way Mom did.

The silverware represents something else aside from Mom’s aesthetic sense. It was a reminder of family gatherings from long ago. Mom would have me set the Thanksgiving table – the table for the adults, we always had a kids table, too – with that silverware. I also helped when she and Dad hosted dinner parties, which they did often. They had a book club with friends that usually included Mom making dinner. I was her sous chef and assistant, vacuuming and raking our red shag living room carpet, straightening up and setting the table. My bedroom was just off the dining room. I would fall asleep still hearing their voices and laughter.

Despite the warm memories, I would not want to return to childhood. I was lonely and terribly sensitive. The societal upheaval of the late ‘60s and ‘70s weighed on me. I would not want to relive growing up with all of the insecurity it entailed, but I can get sentimental about certain things from that place and time. I thought my family was perfect. Though I didn’t appreciate that my brother Mark teased me mercilessly and my brother Steven had a scary temper, as did my dad, but it all felt comfortable and right. I knew they loved me and would protect me. I thought our extended family, my aunts and uncles and my mother’s aunts, uncles and cousins, were the best. They were part of my everyday life – coming in and out of my grandmother’s upstairs apartment regularly. I didn’t know there were tensions and complications in those relationships – not then, that awareness didn’t come until I was fully an adult. As a child my family life felt like a cocoon that shielded me from the pain of the outside world.

It has been many years since I emerged from that cocoon. The first peeling back of my comfortable nest was when Nana died, and I was 11. In some ways Mom carried on Nana’s traditions, but things changed. I left home at 16 to go to college and though I came back for some summers and a year of graduate school, I never lived with my parents again.  

Mom died one month ago. Her death is perhaps the final goodbye to that world.  Mom and my relationship evolved and in her final years. I was more her caretaker than she was mine, but she was still present. She was still Mom. I still wanted her blessing.

I am now part the oldest generation of the family. I am one of the elders. How strange! It’s also unnerving. I know I have matured, but I am still the same person inside. My spirit doesn’t feel old. Sometimes my body argues otherwise, but mostly it functions as it did, and I am grateful for that. But I can’t deny reality. I have one remaining uncle who I am so thankful to have, but that is all that is left of the older generation.

I suppose it is inevitable that seeing certain things, a favorite mug of Mom’s, a lovely piece of pottery that now resides in my cabinet, will remind me of her. Or a memory might be jogged when I set my table with my silverware for the seder, and I will grieve the loss again. Not just of my mother, but Dad, Nana and my aunts and uncles. Though the pang I feel in my heart is painful, it is a good thing, too. It tells me I have had rich relationships and there has been a lot of love given and received.

A Visit With Mom

I walked into Mom’s room and knew immediately that it was a good morning. Despite her pale color, Mom’s eyes were open and clear, and she smiled broadly at me. “Good morning, Linda!” she greeted me with enthusiasm from her bed. She knew it was morning, knew who I was and was happy to see me. That is not the reception I always get. Thankfully she reliably knows who I am, her daughter, but more often she can barely keep her eyes open, and her speech is slurred – a product of the various illnesses, including dementia, she is living with.

The unpredictability of her condition confuses me. I wish I understood it better. I try to emotionally prepare myself for whatever the visit will bring, but it is hard. The variability also makes it difficult to decide what to do about her care. Do we continue to aggressively preserve her life, or do we begin to let her go? I believe Mom’s life at this point is largely sustained by the medications she takes – a high dose of diuretic, as well as heart and blood pressure medications. On the visits that she is foggy and lethargic, spending most of her time sleeping, I wonder if we are doing her any favors. Although she will never fully be herself, on mornings when she is alert, when she is more connected and engaged, then all the medicine and effort make sense.

On this day Mom’s lucidity is a double-edged sword. We enjoy conversation about our family. She is entertained when I read a chapter from Mel Brooks’ autobiography. She listens avidly to his experiences during World War II, which bring back her own memories. But, on the flipside, she is painfully aware of her limitations. She ruefully tells me that she can’t buy the little things she likes to have for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren when they visit because she can no longer go out to shop. She shows deep frustration when she has difficulty getting up and walking to the bathroom. The effort leaves her breathless. It is a titanic struggle to get out of bed (despite having a hospital bed): to sit up, shift weight to her legs and shuffle the few steps to the toilet takes major exertion. And that is even with the assistance of her aide. Given that she is on a diuretic, the need to go is frequent. When Mom returns to bed she is clearly dismayed by her dependence on others and her inability to be in control of her bodily functions.

As the day wears on, Mom gets more confused. The energy and alertness of the morning give way to weariness and confusion. “Maybe they will send me home tomorrow,” she says to me. “Mom, you are home.” “I am?” She thinks she is in the hospital. She is in the same apartment she has been in for the last six years.

I point to the pictures that adorn the room. I show her the table that sits in the dining area just outside the doorway to her bedroom. She nods but then goes on to tell me about how when she was in the Air Force hospital in Texas after giving birth to Steven, they were in a barracks style room. They had to line up to use the bathroom and, “what did I do?” she asks me. “I don’t know.” “I fainted.” She goes on to tell me a convoluted story about them forcing her to get up, but then they put her to bed, and she heard her Aunt Bess in the hall loudly arguing that the nurse should take better care of her. “She made sure I had a silver pitcher, it wasn’t real silver, it was probably silver-colored but that’s not the point, with cold water. Aunt Bess was something.” She was rambling a bit, I thought maybe she was conflating several different experiences. It didn’t matter – I just listened. Then she said again that maybe she would get out of the hospital soon. This time I didn’t try to correct her.

I was getting ready to end my visit. We had talked about the weather forecast, which called for a snowstorm. I told Mom that I wanted to get on the road before the weather turned. She agreed and told me if the roads were bad not to come back to visit the next day. “It isn’t worth taking the chance.” “Thanks, Ma. I’ll stay safe.”

I had no intention of coming back the next day and earlier in the day she knew that. I was going to my apartment in the city to wait out the storm and then drive the rest of the way home to Albany. Mom knows that my house in Albany is a 3.5 hour drive away from her – well, usually she knows that. Depends on the moment.

I walked out to my car reflecting on the visit.

I know what I would want for myself. I firmly and passionately believe that I would not want to live the way Mom is living. I would prefer to stop the life-sustaining medications, take morphine or whatever would allow me to be comfortable while my heart and breathing ebbed, and say my goodbyes. Let nature take its course. Mom’s doctor has said that it is a legitimate, ethical decision – to stop Mom’s diuretic and other meds, make her comfortable and let her go. Though we have made the transition to hospice care, we have not discontinued those essential medications.

Mom is DNR and that decision was made with her full knowledge and consent – she was quite capable of understanding what it meant when we did the paperwork many months ago. I am her health care proxy, but we did not discuss this current scenario. I can’t in all honesty say I know what she would want. If I did it would make this much easier. I comfort myself with the thought that she does not appear to be in pain. Her activities are severely limited, her ability to engage in conversation is variable, her energy is negligible, everything is an effort…is she taking pleasure in her existence? Sometimes, but at best it is a small portion of the day. What is the right thing to do?

So I confer with my brothers and we decide to stay the course…for now.

There are only two things I know. I don’t want this for myself. And, there is no objectively right thing to do. No matter how much I rack my brain, or gut, clarity does not emerge. I need to make peace with the path we are taking and stop ruminating. One way or another, it will resolve itself in time.

In better days: Mom two years ago on the patio of her apartment

Note: I wrote this painful post because writing it helped me process my thoughts. Instead of having a jumble of emotions and images, I understand myself better. I share it because I imagine others may have gone through, are going through or will go through this journey. I think it is important that we talk about end of life choices. Perhaps it will spur conversation in your family.

Yom Kippur

Last Wednesday evening was the beginning of Yom Kippur; it turned out to be a particularly poignant one. As many know, Yom Kippur is the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. It is a solemn day of reflection where we ask for forgiveness for our transgressions from our fellow humans and from God. Those who doubt God’s existence, even avowed atheists, can find meaning in the holiday. We look inward to see how we can do better in the year to come. Sometimes the observance of Yom Kippur resonates more than other years. This one did, perhaps because it has been such a difficult year on so many levels.

The ongoing health challenges facing my mom and aunt have been hard with so many decisions to make; coming to terms with problems that are beyond my ability to solve, has tested my spirit. I hope I am meeting the moment. The limitations COVID has placed on us, which makes dealing with everything yet more complicated, has been another test. I am not the most patient person, but I have had to be more so than ever. The sense that our country is at odds with itself, with no healing in sight, adds to the strain. Well over 650,000 Americans have died of Covid – an unfathomable number. It didn’t have to be this way.

As I look back on the year, there were bright spots. The country did elect Joe Biden (for some readers that may not be a bright spot, but for me it was). An even more positive thing was our daughter’s wedding. Despite the obstacles Covid introduced, we had a magical, intimate weekend of celebration.

From our magical wedding weekend

We were also able to have a family vacation at the Outer Banks. Sometimes I lose sight of the bright spots, so it is good to reflect and remind myself.

The beach at Duck, North Carolina

One of the reasons this Yom Kippur may have been more poignant was that it is the first since Gary’s Dad, David, died. Though we had not actually spent the holiday in person with him in many years, we were very connected. Gary would call just as we concluded the evening meal before attending Kol Nidre to wish David and Paula an easy fast, and then when we broke it the next evening, he would call again to wish them a happy new year and compare notes on how the fast went. This was his tradition with his dad for all the years that I have known Gary unless we were physically all together. There was a painful emptiness where David would have been.

Once again Gary and I livestreamed the service from a Manhattan synagogue, B’nai Jeshurun. Gary was not comfortable attending our synagogue in person due to the continued presence of Covid in the community. We participated from home. I downloaded the mahzor so we could recite the prayers – actually Gary recited, I listened.

Our new-fangled observance: Gary davening while I listened

Part of the Yom Kippur service is called Yizkor. It is focuses specifically on remembrance of those who have died. In preparation for that part, the rabbi suggested that those at home have a photograph, or an item associated with their loved one close by. Gary grabbed an old polaroid of David in which he is surrounded by the family at his home in Liberty. I took a wool cap that was my dad’s that Gary continues to use. We put those items on the coffee table next to the computer screen. It surprised me how much emotion they evoked.

Before the actual Yizkor prayers, the rabbis, there were two conducting the services, shared poems. One was especially powerful.

Michiko Dead

BY JACK GILBERT

He manages like somebody carrying a box   

that is too heavy, first with his arms

underneath. When their strength gives out,   

he moves the hands forward, hooking them   

on the corners, pulling the weight against   

his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly   

when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes   

different muscles take over. Afterward,

he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood   

drains out of the arm that is stretched up

to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now   

the man can hold underneath again, so that   

he can go on without ever putting the box down.

I thought the box was an fitting metaphor for grief. We have all had the experience of struggling to carry a heavy load and grief is just like that. Though we learn to cope, we adjust, we never put it down. The experience is fresher for Gary, but it is a message that resonated for me, as well.

I think we don’t talk about grief or loss enough. It makes us uncomfortable. I don’t want to dwell there, but those emotions are powerful and an important part of our lives. As soon as someone mentions a person who has died, or talks of their sadness, the impulse is to gloss over it and change the subject. Maybe if we didn’t do that the grief would be easier to bear.

One other thought on grieving that we don’t speak about. It is the grief we feel when someone we love is dying. They are still with us, but they might have a terminal illness, or the aging process is taking its toll. Sometimes our mourning begins before they are gone. That is even more of a taboo subject. We don’t know how to talk about death, unless it is an abstraction, or even if we should. There must be a healthier way to live with the certainty of death rather than ignoring it or dressing up our feelings so we can store them tidily away.