2 Months

Feelings are a complicated thing. You feel them. And avoid them at the same time.

Claim to be numb.

But sometimes cry your eyes out. Pillow soaked in your sleep.

2 months seems like a short time. But it feels like ages.

So much has changed.

I am mother-less. An orphan.

Two months ago. I had a mother. And today I do not.

I will never get to hold her hand again.

A cemetery is just a place. She is not really there.

Bones. Underground. A temporary marker with a name and date.

I know I should go on my own. But I am scared of what I will feel.

I want to lay on her. My head on hers. My legs on hers.

I want to crawl inside the box and lay with my mother.

I miss my mother.

Ma. Why did you leave.

I write this and tears fling down my face.

This is why I have avoided writing. Painting.

Anything that involves real emotion.

Ma. I miss you.

Everything is different.

A lot of good thing things have happened. And I can't share with you.

You are not here. You are gone.

Some painful stuff. I wish You were still here.

So I could crawl into your bed. Lay with you.

2 months ago. I buried my mother.

I saw her for the last time. Placed in a box. Placed in the ground.

My mother is gone. And I have to keep going.

Ma. I miss you.

20 Days

I went to the cemetery. It’s Rosh Chodesh Nissan. We’re not supposed to go during Nissan. We don’t get to go on the final day of shloshim. 

My mother is buried under that patch of ground. She is in a box. I don’t even know which way she is facing. Is her head up or down. Where are her feet. Her head. Has she started decomposing. 

It’s weird to stand there. I want to feel sad. I don’t understand how we’ve gotten here. Why has life brought us here. I don’t understand. The ground is sunken in over her box. The ground has settled. The marker at the foot of her grave has an incorrect date. In English and in Hebrew. How can they get such an important date wrong. 

My father cries when he reads tehillim out loud. Only then can I start feeling sad. Do the tears come. It hurts that she’s gone. I feel guilt that I have wished her dead for so many years. 

I miss visiting her. Holding her hand. Watching tv. Listening to music together. I miss her faces. I miss taking her outside and tanning in the park. I miss seeing her face so excited when I walk in the room. Throwing her hands up in excitement. I miss her knowing my name. 

I feel this constant guilt. And I wonder why I am not feeling sad. Why it’s so hard to cry. Why I mostly feel nothing. Empty. Walking around in a haze. 

I miss listening to music. The quiet is so hard. I need music to help me feel. It’s been twenty days without my mother. And everything feels so different. It feels so much harder to connect to my family. 

Feels so much harder to connect in general. Why am I so hard on myself. Why is there no clear way to deal with all of this. 

Twenty whole days without my mother. And I feel like I wasted all that time she was alive. I could have made the most of it. Instead I complained. I was bitter. I should have gotten to know her. Outside of the illnesses. I shouldn't have blamed her. I should have understood. 

And now it's too late. She's gone. She's in that grave. In that sunken in ground. With a marker that has the wrong date. And I am here in the silence. Trying to feel. 

Mourning

The Jewish mourning process is supposedly set up to help people mourn in stages. Five stages from what I've read in all those miserable books. Filled with rules and laws that no real human can follow. Maybe guidelines or traditions. Who knows.

The first stage is called ANINUT (or aninus for the Ashkenazic Americans). One who is in this in-between stage is called an ONEN. This person is free of all positive commandments. The law was established with the knowledge that all focus should be on the immediate death. I was in ONEN status for six hours.

It's not easy to get that call. And I have gotten it a few times over the years. The "you need to come now" call. And every time, I fly to the nursing home or hospital. Wherever we are spending our lives during those days. Driving like a maniac. Wondering is this it. Do I turn off the music. Do I run home and cut my nails. And, yeah, sometimes it was pretty scary. Walking into a hospital room. My family surrounding a large bed. With a very small person. My mother gasping for air.

But she has always made it through.

Except this time.

This was it. The final call. The call you think you have been preparing for your whole life. But when it comes. Total shock. Denial. Flying down the streets one last time. Maybe it is a false alarm. Maybe you misheard. Doubting your own ears. Your own comprehension. But you did hear it clearly. "Come now. Come now. Your mother is not doing well. You need to come now." And then within a few seconds, "she's very cold. She's dead." How can one deny such definitive words.

I entered the room and my mother was no longer. She was cold and grey. Her trach was disconnected. A gaping hole by her neck. Her eyes were slightly open. Limbs no longer stiff. Machines still beeping in the room. Feeding tubes and IV’s reaching to the floor. No longer attached. My father sitting by her side. Holding her hand. Crying silently.

My usual composure shattered. My cries uncontained. Sobbing. My mother died. My mother is dead. She lays before me but she is not there. I am motherless. I am an orphan. Have I willed this. This is what I always wanted. Freedom. From pain. For her. For me. Freedom from responsibility. So then why wasn't I ready. Why the intense shock. The overwhelming pain. How could I feel so alone. When she hasn't really been here for a long time. Maybe never.

Rabbi comes in and says we need to cover her. It's time. I scream and yell how I am not ready. I touch her feet. Something that she has always hated. Earlier years complaining. Recent years a grimace on her face. I stroke her face. Kiss her cheeks. There is no soul inside this hollow body. My mother died. My mother is dead.

We plan the funeral for later the same day. Allowing just enough time for family to come in from New York. The funeral home comes to wheel my mother's body out. All the doors are closed. We follow in sorrow. The tears just won't stop. At home, I shower and cut my nails. Not knowing when I will do them next. I sit on my bed to write my eulogy. Still regretting not speaking at Bubby's funeral. I will speak no matter how hard. No matter how painful.

At the funeral home, my siblings and family finally arrive. Thirty minutes after the service was supposed to begin. We all follow the casket. Of my dead mother. We enter a room filled with people. No seats left. People standing in every space available. No spare room to be found. In a box. In the front of the room. A large box. Way too big. My mother is dead. Inside this casket. A golden star of David on a blue cloth. Inside is my mother. My mother died. My mother is dead.

At the cemetery. We must rush. Have to beat the clock. Make it before the day becomes tomorrow. Lots of Rabbinic advisement. A rush job. Get the box in the ground. Cover it as fast as possible. So many people surrounding. All happening so fast. And then my brother says Kadish. For the first time. Something that he will have to say three times a day for the next year. Mourning publicly in front of a gathering of ten men. A minyan. Never to be missed. The mourners are ushered through two lines of people. One for the men and one for the women. And then we sit on the ground. Take off our shoes. We are officially in stage two.

The second stage includes the first three days of SHIVA, which immediately follow the burial. In an uncommon way. We started our Shiva at the cemetery. So as not to miss a minute. Delaying would cost us to sit Shiva another day. As we approach my father's house. Formerly my parents’ house, people are already on the porch. Waiting to comfort us. The mourners.

The point of this second stage is to allow mourners to experience their grief. Humans need time to be angry. To feel their feelings. Whatever they are. With no one to dictate how to behave. Mirrors are covered. Low chairs around the house. Hands to be washed. Washing away impurity. An egg to be eaten with bread. Symbolizing the circle of life. Perhaps. And in our case, due to the upcoming holiday, Shiva will only be during those three days. People will come in droves throughout the day. To comfort. Some to listen. Many to speak about themselves and their own pain or loss.

From early morning until late at night. I sat in that low chair. And I felt nothing. Empty. I laughed with some. But I could not remember any good memories to share. The disappointment in the picture painted of my mother. The careless things people said. The constant "well meaners." And yes. There were some who made a difference. But mostly numb. Until the night. When the house emptied out. When we laid in our beds. And we cried. I cried into my pillow. I sobbed. My mother died. My mother is dead. I will never see her again. I wasn't there enough. Who am I now. Without her.

The third stage is the reminder of the SHIVA. Literally translated as "seven." Referring to the seven days. This was more of a quiet stage for us. Unimaginable if we had to sit for an actual seven days.

The fourth stage of mourning is called the SHLOSHIM. Literally translated as "thirty". This stage refers to the thirty days from the burial on. Including both the second and third stage. I am now in Shloshim. The laws are not as strict as Shiva but they are still existent. Less joy. Less of everything. This numb feeling still overtaking.

And then she finally leaves. I am finally alone. After two intense weeks filled with people. I am back in my own place. My own bed. All I want to do is feel. So I open the link. And I watch the funeral. I cry out as if it is all fresh and new. It is fresh. I have not had a minute to feel anything. My mother died. My mother is dead. And now I am lost. I lay in my bed and I don't know what to do.

The fifth and supposed final stage is the year of mourning. It will be a long year ahead. Decisions to me made. Life to adjust to. New reality. New existence. Potential. Freedom.

Maybe the stages aren't so bad after all.

I was the Shabbat Imma in Gan. My mom always came. 

A Eulogy

Dear Ma, 

What can I say to the woman who brought me into this world.  You waited for so many years. So much pain and heartache.  You suffered through so much.  But despite all of the suffering, you were still my mother. Our Ma. You were so proud of us three children.  

The person that people saw in the last few years was not the real you. Although, your personality definitely peeked through. Your stubbornness. Your spunk. Your fight. You were a survivor. You taught me what it means to live. To hold on. 

I want to share some memories of the good times. 

Remember the time that we went horseback riding and you sat on the side reading a book waiting for us as a pig tried to eat your chair. 

Remember when you got your hair cutting license in Israel. You were so proud. Little did I know I would spend my childhood with short hair and short bangs as you would practice on my hair. Everyone in the Dorset area came to you for haircuts.

Remember how you were always bickering with Aunt Naomi on the phone and whenever you got together. You always argued about the time you walked through the glass door, you only got a book about animals, and when Aunt Naomi fell out of the car, she got markers. I can’t even count how many times I had to hear that story. 

Remember how you always had to match everything. Your shoes matched your skirt, which matched you shirt and eyeshadow. Your earrings were probably heavier than you.

Remember how you made coca cola chicken. Apricot meat that would melt in your mouth. And the best Bubby Kugel. 

Remember how you bought every Jewish book that came out. Your love for Rabbi Biographies. And millions of Miriam Adahan books. You went to almost every WIT class possible. Your notes were everywhere around the house. You went to shul every Shabbos. Always sitting up front. 

Remember Tai Chi. Remember how you and Bubby would be sitting by the window in Household two waiting for one of us to come. The minute you would see Abba walking towards you, you would stand up and mimic his motions. Putting your arms up above your head and copying all the arm motions he was doing in the parking lot. 

Your love for Abba was beyond anything. 

Remember how proud you were of Chaim. He is your pride and joy. Your obvious favorite. 

Remember when you found out you were pregnant withDevora. Was probably the happiest day of your life. 

Remember how you would talk to your father every day on the phone. 

Remember how you loved Simcha and Shira. How proud you were of the families they crated. 

Remember how grateful you were to Yechiel for the dedication and care for Aunt Naomi. You finally get to be with your sister. And your mother. And Bubby. You are finally pain free.  

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I’ll miss you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

Family Reunion

Well I did it. I survived the family reunion. And by that I mean a trip to the cemetery. Because that's where our family gets together. Genius, no?

Bubby's Unveiling surprisingly went off without a hitch. No one punched each other. No cruel words. Just us all standing around. In our own little worlds. Remembering the woman who has left us all alone. Who lived a full life.

And yet we all live incomplete lives. No unity. A sad and pathetic family. Complete and constant disappointment.

How I miss you Bubby.

Every time they say that all your descendants are shabbos observant, I cringe. Is that even true. Have I failed you. Do I disrespect you with the fact that I have trouble with believing. Living this lie. That I don't want to be here.

Are you ashamed of me. That I don't like your family. That I feel abandoned. That each one of us is selfish. Living in our unique, or rather suffocating bubble.

Where are you Bubby. You were supposed to be here. Forever.

I desperately wanted to get up by your new stone and say the truth. Tell everyone what they needed to hear. That you would be ashamed of all of us. Our behaviour. Towards each other. You would be crying if you were here.

I miss you daily Bubby. You were the only one that loved me for me. That accepted without judgement. You made me feel like I belong.

But now you are gone. Almost an entire year without you. And I can't get the picture out of my head. Of you laying peacefully in your bed. A lifeless body. Soul departed to a better place. Far away from me. Leaving me alone.

Even your son didn't come. My grandfather. The selfish Patriarch of the family. He can't step out of himself and be there for any of us. So wrapped up in himself. Consumed.

Am I like him? Have I cut out everyone just like him. You don't come to say goodbye to your own mother. What about my mother. Did it ever occur to you that she needs you. That we might need you.

What kind of family is this. Immediate family is a joke. Extended family is a lie. Where is the support. Where is the understanding. You think if you come to the nursing home once a year, you are covered. You have done your due diligence. You plan a party in your own convenience.

Did it occur to you that I have to make her presentable. That we cringe on the inside. That I went to her room and dragged her out of bed. As she continued to grind her teeth. Sleeping with her eyes open. Unaware that I was even there. That I took her to the bathroom and changed her diaper. Brushed her teeth. And then changed her clothes. Put on her cochlears. Awakened her back into this fake world. All to make her look put together. So you would feel comfortable.

And then you sit there and pretend that this family is normal. That all is ok. That we are all functioning. That we are not suffering. Lacking. Dying on the inside. You did your good deed for the day. You showed up. With fake kisses on each cheek. And talked about nonsense.

And then you left and she was devastated. Crying for hours. Probably still crying. Tears of abandonment. Of loss. Of loneliness. As you go back to your real life. Pretending that we are ok. Convinced that it is not your problem. Not your responsibility. Out of sight out of mind.

So thanks for nothing. As usual. We have it under control. This family that doesn't really exist. A figment of imagination.

Thanks for nothing.

Ignorance is Beautiful

It seems that I will always be dependable. Reliable. I will always live to serve. My role as an individual is almost unnecessary. The me that hides beneath is mute. Silent. I go through the motions. And sometimes I actually do care. But it's mostly a facade. A distraction. From the truth. From reality. From myself. Your lives and dramas are so much easier to deal with. No emotion required. No self-reflection or motivation needed. Inspiration flown out the window ages ago. Ignorance is a welcomed drug. A wonderful pill to swallow. Unlike the horse-pill that lies around the corner. Waiting to close up my throat. Suffocate my lungs. Empty any stomach-juices left in my body. Leaning over a toilet or any available garbage can.

Ignorance is a beautiful thing. It prevents from mourning a loved one. Erases the pain of seeing the dead. Watching as dirt is dug and one plain box is lowered into the earth. Numb as a life is forever gone. The end. Unconditional love has slipped through your finger tips. Never to exist again. Any possible heartache gone. Holding a mother who cannot stop crying and does not know why. I am not a daughter. I am a mother. A caretaker. A mother to no one. I am not a wife. But somehow I got sucked into that role. Because I live to serve. I sacrificed myself. I was afraid to soar. To fly. I could not let go. I could not feel. I pushed it all under the carpet. I lost me. I have disappeared. And for what. What do I have to show for any of it. Nothing. Nothing.

Hesped

Crying my eyes out

Watching a hesped 

Of a husband 

Mourning the loss

Of his 24 year old wife 

Mother of his 

5 month old child

Taken away suddenly

There are no answers

No reasons 

It's always the good ones

That get taken 

Far too early 

Snatched from this earth 

No time to say goodbye

Her child is motherless 

Her sister is now an only child

Parents have lost a daughter 

The world 

Is an emptier place 

A pure soul

Has been taken back to its creator

Leaving a massive gap

A tremendous hole

Horrible Sadness....

Such terrible tragedies going on around me. People who I know well are suffering and in pain. Death and pain all around. Babies born out of wedlock. What is this world coming to? I can't take my mind of these things. So much sadness. Horrible sadness.

A girl my age dies after years of suffering from cancer. Gets sent home from the hospital to Hospice. Sent home to die. But then she dies. She was only 27 years old. Leaving behind a loving husband, family, friends. She was a kind and sweet person. Gentle. Pure.

A friend posts on Facebook yesterday that she regrets to let everyone know that her dear sister has passed away. A younger sister. Mother of a four month old. Dead. Leaves behind a husband. A family. A baby. A motherless baby. My friend has to bury her sister. Her younger sister.

A girl I went to high school with just had a baby with her Mexican boyfriend. Her boyfriend that she works at the local pizza store with. The newborn already looks Mexican. The mother is a blond haired, blue eyed Jew. Her child will have no nachala (portion in Israel). Who gives this child a bris? This girl was adopted as a small child. Her parents gave her everything. For what?

What has happened to the world. Or was it always like this. Miserable. Horrid. Where is the light at the end of the tunnel? Where is the silver lining? Tell me. Where?