Harriet Carole Gaba Drissman, a"h

My Mom's Roots
On August 25, 1940, 74 years ago today, Harriet Carole Gaba was born to two proud parents: Tillie and Dr. Howard Gaba. She was a breech baby and needed surgery to fix a condition when she was younger, but she was a feisty little thing even back then and thrived. Her parents were a hard-working couple and Tillie helped Howard run his physician practice, which took place in Hazel Park, Michigan (one of the only locations left that needed physicians - he had missed the pick of the locations because he fought in WWII in the Philippines, but worked his tail off regardless).

Harriet was their first and she was adorable. Dark curly hair and dark eyes. Because they didn't have a lot of money, the Gabas lived with Tillie's sister, Rose, and her husband Harry Saltzman. Those two couldn't have kids so they helped Tillie and Howard raise theirs. Harriet and Lawrence were born before Howard fought in the War, and Arthur and Joanne were born after he came back. Howard was never the same and had a temper at times, but he did the best he could, raising the four kids with his wife and playing chess. He eventually became a Master and ran his own chess tournament in the Detroit area.

Harriet was a good kid, and would sit quietly for hours as her aunt would curl her hair in the mornings before school. Each summer, they would meet their cousins from Chicago in South Haven and spend the entire summer in the water. She loved South Haven and had great memories from there.

Young Harriet
Harriet loved art, folk dancing, and traveling. She lived in California in the 1960s and even painted a mural on a cafe wall in Los Angeles. She made good friends wherever she went and people would always remember her. One of her close friends, Murray, even asked her if she'd design he and his wife's wedding bands. She did and they still wear them.

Mom dancing with Murray at his wedding

She was extremely politically motivated and was close friends with R' Meir Kahane. She arranged his speaking engagements and he would stay at our house when in town.

In the early 1970s, she moved to, and lived in, Israel, with the intention of making Aliyah. She started by drawing caricatures on the street, then worked in a PR and advertising firm. She was close to Avi Shochat and we all remained close with him and his family for years.

Mom dancing with "Big Avi"

She knew Michael Drissman for years from Detroit and they kept in touch. He would occasionally visit Israel and they'd hang out together. She even tried setting him up with one of her friends when he arrived, but (fortunately) it didn't work out.

Harriet and Michael
Eventually they got closer and, in 1973, he visited Israel again. While there, he spent a lot of time with her, and while she was sitting in her chair in the PR firm in Tel Aviv, he asked if she'd like to get married. She said yes, then asked if he was serious. He was. She got excited and called her mother. He didn't. She asked Michael if he was going to; he said, I'll send her a letter. And so he did... It was their first argument and they kept each other on their toes for the next 40 years.

For him, Harriet moved back to the United States, and on November 18, 1973, Harriet Gaba became Harriet Drissman.

They had five kids, and Harriet was a part-time teacher and a stay-at-home mom. She took us to camps in the summer, taught us to paint and would have us draw/paint canvases. Those would be hung on her walls in her house. She'd make us lunches for school every day and write our names and grades on the front of the paper bags. Her father, Howard, taught us chess, and we'd practice with our Abba (Michael).

She argued with my school when they wanted to hold me back a year simply because I was young. She won that argument. She arranged for my brother Avi to get advanced math studies in middle school because he surpassed all the 8th graders' capabilities and she made sure we attended all of his award ceremonies (even if we were late - it was tough getting all five kids to move on time). Mom tried making all of us readers by finding out what each of us was into. She took us to the Brandeis Book Fair and we could buy WHATEVER books we wanted. She would push the cart for us and we'd run out and back with more and more choices.

She taught us to swim at the Jewish Community Center pool because she was terrified that we'd drown. My dad had never learned to swim so she took us religiously and taught us different strokes. We had to complete ten full lengths each summer night during our visits to the pool in addition to our playtime.

My mom took care of my dad when he had a major heart attack in 1984; she held strong in taking care of her mother when she was sick with cancer in the mid-80s, and when both her parents died in 1987. She remained the family rock when her Aunt Rose and Uncle Harry died and when my dad's Aunt Selma and Uncle Ruby died - also in the late 80s. She kept going when my father had a major stroke in 1989 and was off work for 12 years. She made our finances work somehow; 5 kids in a private day school and a recovering husband. It was a rough decade for all of us, but especially for her.

She decided that life was too short to wait for recoveries and so we started our family vacations. We drove all over, seven of us in a minivan. New York, Toronto, San Antonio, Washington, D.C., Palo Alto, Orlando. We Drissmans saw the country. She gave us games to play while we were driving and had patience even while we *really* had to pee between highway exits.

In 1991 we went to Israel because my dad's Russian cousins escaped Russia. She helped arrange the trip and made sure everything ran pretty smoothly. In 1992, she helped bring my two cousins back to the US for a summer trip. She argued with Washington because they didn't want to allow two Russian brothers to come here at the same time; they figured they wouldn't want to leave. My mom won that argument and we spent a great summer together (we are still close).

She wanted us to love being Jewish so she made each holiday special. We dressed up every Purim (she'd go costume hunting after Halloween) and she made the story of Passover come alive with frogs and ping pong balls and wild animals on our table.

She would take us into the voting booth with her, had us join her when she would "plaster" cars with flyers and defend her role as a mother when others would question her actions. She was fierce.

The Curiosities of My Mom
My mom loved Michigan. She loved the land and the people here. She liked Kid Rock and Eminem. She thought they were talented and it made her happy that they were proud to be Michiganders. I even played her Kid Rock's song about Northern Michigan. She wouldn't necessarily listen to it, but she loved it.

My mom loved the Summertime bc she got to spend time with us. The back-to-school commercials upset her because she felt that parents should want to spend time with their kids. She didn't make us go back to school before her birthday because it was still summer. She preferred to buy Michigan-made items first, then American-made items, but Israeli-made items trumped them all.

My Mom, Complicated and Layered
My mom wasn't perfect. She had a temper just like her dad, which she hated. She told me that each generation should be better than the last so she was glad that, even with her temper, it was still less than his. She felt bad every time she lost her temper. She knew she wasn't perfect, but she tried every week to find the positive. She even made us, every Friday night, come up with the Grateful Policy. We had to list three things we were grateful for; they had to have happened in the last week and they couldn't be sports.

She didn't understand all of us. She insisted that we all get along. It broke her heart to see us fighting. But she and my dad created five very different people, and it was bound to happen that she didn't "get" all of us. She tried her very best, but even at the end, she worried that she didn't do enough for us.

To others, my mom was always smiling, always pleasant. She wasn't always like that.. she was under a lot of pressure and stress. She tried to keep a positive face but it just wasn't always possible. Not many people knew but that was because it wasn't anyone else's business...

She taught us to keep judgments to ourself. If we wondered about other people's finances, she'd say, oh, you know what's in their bank account? In that way, she constantly reminded us to not judge others and to give them the benefit of the doubt.

She taught us many lessons (I just didn't always learn them well), including priorities by making us to do our have-to-dos before our want-to-dos. When I questioned the size of our house, she drove me to the smaller neighborhoods and showed me what others have so that I knew how lucky I was. I never complained again.

My mother's spirit was strength, fight, and light. She did her best to always be there for us and for our family. She was chipper and tried to be understanding. She loved kids and spent as much time as possible with her grandkids. She never tried to set us up and stayed out of our love lives because she trusted us to know ourselves better than she did. She loved us.

She loved others. She bought gifts for people when they had kids. She helped others financially. She drew the Ganeinu logo for the synagogue camp (which is still being used today). Many things I only found out after she passed.

My mom loved my dad and he loved her. They didn't always get along, but they worked hard together. They started dating again when I was in high school and would walk around the mall together. She'd make him take her to dinner and would put up with him when he wanted to stay home and watch a cartoon (usually "The Incredibles" or "Shrek"). She made him lunch to take to work every day for decades and explained that she did that because she was his wife, and that's what she was supposed to do.

My Mom's Sickness
My mom lived with diabetes and chronic kidney disease for years. She didn't tell us all her problems because she didn't want to worry us. She fought and beat kidney cancer. I didn't find out she would need dialysis until I was on my honeymoon. She refused to take any of our kidneys and everyone at her kidney clinic loved her and her positive attitude. In her last year and "the summer that never was," she was diagnosed with colon cancer and meant to fight that too. She never got the chance, but I believe she would have beaten it as well.

Who Was My Mom?
My mom was a complicated person, but really was very simple. She loved art, dancing, traveling (even went by train when my dad stopped flying), teaching, children, and her children and family.

She was feisty and fought for what she believed in - for what was right. She was happy and private. She bragged about her kids (but only to those who had smart kids as well because she didn't want to make others feel bad). She always tried to have something nice to say to others.

I am a mini-me of my mother. People have recognized me as her daughter without knowing who I am - by my dancing, my face, and my attitude. I know I turned into my mother at the age of 8. I have her temper as well, but, like her, it is lessened and I do my best to work on it.

My mom will forever be 72. She was taken before her time, but she will forever be in my heart. My son is named after her; he looks like her. He has her spirit, both the feisty and the smiling sides. I will teach him what my mother taught me, by words and by actions. I miss so much about her and every time I think of something else she loved, I write it down so I don't forget.

She was so strong and amazing. Our rock and our light. Not perfect, but who is.

I would be quite proud if I became half the woman my mother was.

The Jewish Way of Mourning

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My pursuit of happiness has been interrupted this past month with the sudden, and unexpected, death of my mother, Harriet Carole Gaba Drissman (Chana Tziril bas Teibl). She was 73, between her Hebrew and English birthdays - young by today's standards. Definitely young by my standards.

Many people have asked me what happened; if it was expected. I've tried to find the simplest answer for them: she had chronic issues but they aren't what caused her death. So NO, it wasn't expected. I know they are asking because we try to understand death and to get some sort of grip on it, but I'm not sure repeating the same information, over and over, to dozens of people is helping me.

What is helping me? 

I suppose it is the Jewish approach to mourning. Seven days of Shiva, 30 days (Shloshim) - which continues for 23 days after Shiva ends, and then 11/12 months of mourning (for a parent).  Some mourn for 12 full months, but others only mourn for 11 months (because we don't want to acknowledge or feel that our lost loved one would be waiting to get into heaven for the full twelve months).

I dreaded the funeral and I'm still not up to speaking about it. But Shiva was mostly helpful to me (it’s different for everyone – some do not find it helpful). I got to see whom my mother touched by speaking to them, laughing with them, joking with them. I heard stories that I hadn't heard before.

My baby brother's married friend got pregnant. As soon as she found out she was having a baby girl, my mom went shopping and dropped off baby clothing to the girl's mom (my mom's bank teller) and wished her a hearty congratulations.

My friends had a baby girl 10 months ago. When she was born, my mom went out and bought them an entire set of Little Midrash Says. They read it to her on a regular basis. That way, they thought of her and she has been with them each time.

I really didn't look forward to the end of Shiva. Partly because I liked hearing the stories and seeing all my nieces and nephew, but partly because I wasn't ready to face the "new normal." I'm still not ready but I don't have much of a choice.

The First Week, Post-Shiva

This week, the first full week after Shiva, has been ridiculously difficult. I miss my mom. At every moment I am a breath away from tears. I keep expecting her to walk in with her wobbly walk, silver cane, and a smile on her face. I can't text her anymore. I can't call her anymore. All I have left are my memories, my photographs, my videos, and one of my last texts from her, "xoxoxo."

In some ways, Shloshim is much worse than Shiva. At least at Shiva, there were people around telling stories of my mom, my brothers and sister were around, my husband was there, everyone was taking care of me and making sure I was eating and drinking.

Shloshim sucks. My siblings have returned to their lives, my husband is working, and I am home. Alone. Doing nothing but try to convince myself to shower and get errands done. I think of my mom all the time.

My Shloshim for my mother ends at Rosh HaShanah. I can't cut my nails, listen to music, buy new things, wear new clothing, accept gifts, and cannot shower or bathe for pleasure. I cannot attend social events or social gatherings.

My nails are getting long and making typing difficult. I am pregnant and will need new maternity clothing in the next few months. I have friends who are celebrating birthdays and baby events. But I'm okay with all of that because the restrictions are forcing me to address my great and terrible loss.

I have lost many people in my life, more than most. But they were never someone for whom I had to sit Shiva on low, uncomfortable chairs for a week. What I learned from those losses -- the hard way -- is that I need to confront and address the loss or the loss will overwhelm me and my crippling emotions will be uncontrolled, popping up at random times.

Each day people and friends call and text me to see how I'm doing. I don't answer the calls; I'm not up to it yet. Other friends are urging me to take the time I need, that everyone recovers at a different pace. When I have a bad day (or night), I text friends and cousins I know who have experienced the same loss. 

I don't smile like I used to, but I know eventually that will change. Eventually, the memories that make me cry and miss my mom the most are the ones that will make me smile the biggest (or so I’ve been told). I'm not there yet.

But I'm grateful that I had her for 35 years. I'm grateful that she attended my wedding and walked me down the aisle, on the beach, barefoot, with my dad and me. I'm grateful she knew I was pregnant and expecting at the end of January. I'm grateful that she saw ultrasounds of the cutest baby ever (her words). I'm grateful that I got to live with my parents and get to know them for years after I moved back home. I'm grateful I inherited some of my mother so that I can remind others of her.

I can't ignore the pain - I'm spending lots of time at the hospital because my husband's grandmother is sick. I can't ignore the pain because others I know and care for are going through more pain than I am. I can't ignore the pain by distracting myself with happy, laughing children. I want to so badly... but I can't ignore the pain.

I'm grateful I have this time forced upon me. I am now sitting at home, going through photographs of my mom so I can put together memory books for my siblings, my dad, and the grandkids. I am making a list of the things my mom loved, like polka dots, reading historic romance novels through her father's magnifying glass, painting, and playing Scrabble (she beat me in our last game).

There are some things I don't understand about Judaism. I'm not sure I understood this before I lived through it. But the 7/30/365 is really helping so far. I can only hope that the remainder of the Shloshim and the year is just as rehabilitative as it can be, considering the circumstances.

The Second Week, Post-Shiva

Ups and downs. I was warned that every day is going to suck, just some less than others. I spent her birthday with my girlfriends at the pool, recovering in the sun. I haven’t been outdoors all summer since much of it was at a hospital.

I’ve started eating again, which pleases my husband. I lost five pounds the week of Shiva and he got nervous. My appetite has returned, but this time baby prefers meats and heavier dishes. I still think of my mom, but I’ve started speaking about her out loud instead of avoiding verbalizing my thoughts. I still want to cry, even now.

I continued going through my photographs on my laptop and found a video I took of my sister’s little girl. My mother was in it and she spoke. It was probably only 5-7 seconds of her speaking, but IT HAS HER VOICE. Last week I already couldn’t remember her voice and I was horrified. I felt that, when I found this video, some of my prayers were answered. I felt a little better.

**                        **                        **

Because my husband’s grandmother is in the hospital and we didn’t know the outcome, his mother and sister flew in from Israel. They have been here all week and at first I accompanied them to the hospital. I only did that a few times because I realized it was too soon for me. It didn’t help that she was in the same room that my mother had been prior to being transferred to ICU. Sitting there, knowing all the nurses, seeing another person I care about sick… I stopped going.

I went to synagogue with my dad and when they collected names of sick individuals (so they could say prayers for them), he automatically said my mother’s. My heart broke all over again and I cried. I seem to have a harder time at synagogue – I haven’t gone one Shabbos without crying and needing tissues. I have been looking forward to Rosh HaShana more and more this week. I need to get rid of this year; it has been way too difficult for me. I need a fresh start. I prayed for a relaxing Shabbos, one where I might be able to breathe, and after Shabbos received bad news. My brother’s father-in-law passed away suddenly on Shabbos morning.

The Third (and last) Week, Post-Shiva

My brother now is hosting Shiva again, the second time in a month. Once for his mother, once for his father-in-law. I went to the funeral and was a mess. I avoided the cemetery for two reasons: (1) it wasn’t emotionally healthy for me to go; (2) Jewish custom dictates that a pregnant woman shouldn’t go.

I went to Shiva this morning. Everyone in the family was there, and I know most of them relatively well. Some from college, some through my sister-in-law. It was horrendous pain all over again. I lost control and my headache returned with a vengeance. And unfortunately, we now have another something in common: we have both lost a parent at too young an age and so suddenly. I’m reminded harshly of the great and terrible pain of losing my mom, of all the future memories I am now cheated out of, of my children knowing her in person. Eulogies I heard at the funeral suddenly transposed into eulogies for my mom. Staring at the pine box in the front of the room reminded me of my mother’s pine box.

**                        **                        **

I think again of Rosh HaShana coming up (this Wednesday night). It will cut off our Shloshim and we will move into the third phase of mourning for my mother, the year. This year has been challenging, to say the least, and I have only two more days to gather and hold this grief to me. My brother hasn’t yet shaved, my nails are still long, and I still avoid music if I can.

Somehow, life still continues on without her. My husband goes to work, the post office still delivers mail, phone calls from solicitors keep coming to my dad’s house. My father replies, “Harriet is deceased.” They say sorry and hang up. I open mail to my mom and call to cancel appointments explaining that she passed away three weeks ago.

My wonderful husband and I started cleaning and organizing the house, and I’ve decided there’s nothing more cathartic than manual labor, sweating, and the smell of cleaning supplies.

I miss my mom terribly. I miss everything about her. My dad and I spent today together at Greenfield Village and I kept thinking about how she would have gotten around the museum, what job she would have liked best there (she occasionally talked about becoming a docent there and dressing up in 18^th and 19^th century clothing), how we would have gone into the millinery store together. I didn’t mention any of that. I’m sure that my father was thinking it too.

Instead, he and I tried forming new memories. We walked around together, read signs, got strawberry lemonade slushies, took some photographs (I stole some of him), and, at times, just walked together in silence.

Life is not the same without my mom. It will never be the same again. The hole in my heart is still the same size and the edges are still tattered and bleeding.

But I keep looking forward, thinking of my dad, my sister and brothers, my in-laws, my nieces and nephew, my baby that my mother was so terribly excited about. I keep thinking about my husband, with whom I celebrated one year today.

My mom always had a smile on her face, and if there’s one thing I can try and learn from her, it’s to smile… if for no other reason than to keep them wondering what you’re thinking.

So my Shloshim is almost over, and I think I’m in [slightly] better shape than I was three weeks ago. I’m not ignoring the pain; I’m not suppressing it. I don’t know how healthy I am, but I’m doing what I can to embrace the pain, because next week will be a new step in mourning even though the hole will still be there.

I continued with my artwork, took new photographs this week, will start sketching and painting again next week. Continued with my Scrabble games so that maybe, just maybe, I can attain the same ranking that my mom did. I call my sister and go see my brothers. I text them more regularly to tell them I love them dearly. I talk to my cousins more than I used to and hug my aunt and uncle whenever I see them.

I end Shloshim with the Jewish New Year. The shofar will blow and I will cry (my mom loved the sound and so do I), but we will get a fresh start and a clean slate – one we badly need. Hopefully this coming year will be one of health, new life, success, and joy for me and those I love.

As for those you love, hug them. Call them. Text them. Tell them how you feel. You never ever know what tomorrow will bring.