Learning to Let Go...

...and to breathe.

Yesterday was my beloved and my seventh year wedding anniversary and today is the sixth yarzheit (day of remembrance) for my mom - i.e. the anniversary of the day she died in the Hebrew calendar. And, shockingly, this is the calmest I've been in a while.

The end of August was painful - not nearly so as the middle, but I had a blood clot scare and job drama (not yet resolved, but looking good), and each morning I would count down the days until we were scheduled to go to the circus with our littles (on Friday the 30th). Once we made it to the circus, that pretty much meant I survived. Literally and figuratively. I had great belief that once August was over, things would be brighter.

It was sometime toward the end of the last week when my husband joined me in our room and told me that he realized we had NO mezuzot (scrolls) up on almost any of our doorways in our new apartment, and that we had not had any up all month. We moved in the beginning of August.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, there is a distinct and direct connection (whether superstitious or actual) between your health and your mezuzot. They are thought to act as protection over your residence and those within; they are the anti-thesis to evil and a guard over your home.

"The very purpose of mezuzot is the protection of the house and its inhabitants."

My husband is not the superstitious type (I am) so for that to come out of his mouth meant more than anything. We had had a crap-tastic month with no mezuzot. I was quiet and shocked and he immediately said, with great resolve, "I am going to find the mezuzot tomorrow and put all of them up. We need a better month."

And so he did.

Friday was Circus Day and we had a grand time. The kids requested cotton candy (it was larger than their heads) and sat there, astounded, eyes glued to the performance. Every so often, one of them would turn to us and say in their little voices, "What in the WORLD was that!?" It was magical and still brings a smile to my face.

Immediately after it ended, I realized my phone and wallet had dropped. It's still August, I thought, devastated, knowing that Shabbat was about thirty minutes away. Security couldn't find it. I couldn't find it (even with fifteen minutes of intense searching with a baby on my hip). My husband then went to find it and came back with it in hand. RELIEF!

We walked home quickly, lit candles, ate our Shabbat meal, put the kids to bed, said our gratefuls, one of which was celebrating the end to one of the worst months of our lives.

* * *

The next afternoon, after missing for at least six months, I found my engagement ring. Randomly, on the floor, laying and twinkling at me just inside a cabinet door, like the planet hadn't just shifted beneath my bare feet.

I blinked and gently picked it up. I turned it over. It wasn't my imagination - it truly was sitting in my hand, sparkling and reflecting more than seven years of love.

Over a month prior to moving, I had shared my worst fears with hubby, that my ring was lost forever. I was even ready to says the blessing for recovering lost items (like I said, superstitious), but my husband had faith it would turn up - even dreamed that it would be found before our anniversary.

And so it did! And, yes, I've been wearing it every day since.

Immediately after finding my ring, I jumped up, ran into our room, leaped onto the bed, and woke my husband with a huge smile on my face. He shared in my joy and calmly said, "you know, it's also Elul (a new Jewish month)... and Monday is our anniversary."

I could have cried with the sheer relief of it all. The weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders.

So who cares that we now have to get up and take three kids to three separate Ganim? Who cares that we now have parental meetings and all sorts of extracurriculars to handle? Who cares that I'm remembering my mom's passing at the same time as celebrating my marriage? NOT ME.

My mom would be super happy for me. She met my husband and loved him as a match for me. She saw the ultrasound of my first baby and loved the perfect shape of his head. I have an amazing husband who takes me to the beach at night to celebrate seven years, with wine and cheese, fruit and dip, and crepes with chocolate and jam. I have three ridiculous children who smile and scream with delight every time I come home from work. I live in a lovely neighborhood with really kind friends nearby who honestly care about me. I get to keep up and share videos and photographs with my friends and family regularly because of technology. I may not be financially wealthy (yet), but I am rich because I have a full life.

It's not perfect and I'd like another baby (healthy!), but today, at the beginning of September, Elul, and the rest of our lives, I'll take it.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: That Day and Beyond

Part VI: Thursday, August 22.
That Day and the Emotional Aftermath.

On Wednesday the 14th (an inauspicious day in my family), my husband and I woke up too early (not really, I slept through the first alarm at 5:30am) and snuck out to drive to Assuta in Tel Aviv by 7am. No one was awake in our house, not my husband's brother, not the baby, not the boys. My sister-in-law had also slept over so she could get a ride into TLV, but she was very quiet as well. What was there really to say?

We drove in, throwing small talk occasionally at each other, but mainly, I was nervous and quiet. I didn't really know what to expect physically or mentally. I won't go into too much detail, but the nurses and doctors at Assuta were extremely professional and kind (thank goodness). I got a lovely ventilated gown to wear during my stay, two stylish bracelets, and autographed several documents stating that I was aware of the risks and complications that could occur - standard run of the mill stuff, like a punctured uterus or retained placenta. I was nervous as hell and took prayers from whomever and wherever.

My first two births (my crazy boys) were drug-free but induced since I was on blood thinners and the doctors and midwives were nervous. In both the States and Israel, I took a half a cytotec pill orally and my body, apparently knowing what it was doing, simply took over. My third baby (Lil' Lilush) was all drug-free, no cytotec or anything. This fourth baby required a little more.

While sitting with the doctor discussing risks, he gave me FOUR cytotec pills, two to take sublingually (under my tongue) and two... elsewhere. I remember thinking it was overkill - what a terrible choice of words. But there's nothing "choice" about this "procedure." The most random thoughts go through your head when you're laying there, waiting for the pills to kick in, freezing, teeth chattering due to incoming wacky hormones and air conditioning, counting down the sixty minutes before they take you in.

And then they do.

They wheel you in through a set of double doors that requires one scanned card and then another. The doors in front of you don't open until the set behind you closes. I think, how odd it is that they have safari doors - what, they're afraid of crazed, pregnant women breaking out of the department, gowns flapping in the wind as they wave their hands in the air... Like I said, random thoughts.

My husband walks with me as far as he can go, grips my hand, tells me he loves me, and then I'm alone and it's freezing in the interior hallway. The hormones have jacked everything up and it feels like I've been here forever, but it's only been an hour since I took the pills. The kind nurse asks me again what my ID number is, and I crack and almost cry as I repeat it to her. It's too late to change my mind and I can't anyway - there's no point.

I'm asked to walk into the OR on my own accord and I do, chattering the whole way. The nurse gets me not one, but two heated blankets, one for beneath, one for above (it helps a little) and they prep me, give me a quick IV with antibiotics and an anesthetic and say, lilah tov.

...

And that's it. I wake up in recovery, empty. I sleep and sleep some more until they finally let my husband in. I sleep more and they wheel me back into my original room. I have to lay in bed for a total of two hours and ding them when I need to use the bathroom (kinda like after you give birth). So I lay there.

I don't remember what I spoke to my husband about except that I was hungry. We headed to Ra'anana and my in-laws suggested eating at this great place called Sara's Place. I wasn't really in the mood, but we went and I'm glad we did. With all my remaining energy, we ordered the best hamburgers and we talked. He mentioned that the nurse came in to the waiting area after my procedure and asked who was "Ariel haGibor (Ariel the hero)." Apparently while I was coming out of sedation, that's what I called him. We sat next to each other, we enjoyed our food, we shared photos of the kids, and we enjoyed each other's company thoroughly while trying to move forward from the hellish morning.

I don't really recall much after that. I hadn't realized that lunch took the entire week's energy. I'm pretty sure we went home and I rested. Slept and rested. Slept and rested. Played a bit with the kids as a pick-me-up and then rested more. Rested all of Thursday. On Friday we started studying for my first law exam. On Saturday, my oldest asked me when the baby was going to join us. On Sunday, I took my exam. Monday and Tuesday were "work" days, and Wednesday I studied again. Today (Thursday) was another exam which ended around 3:15pm and in three days, we will try and celebrate "Mama Chana" day (what would have been my mom's 79th birthday). Quite the month.

I haven't had much time to think about everything that happened over the last two weeks; all I've been doing is coughing, studying, and taking tests. Today, the last test for five months, has been the day I've been dreading - wondering if it would be as bad as the week after shiva ended. Truth be told, I'm in a foul mood, I'm sad, and I'm tired. Over the past week there were some days where I couldn't stop crying and there were some days when I was just... tired and disconnected. One guy at work kept asking what was wrong and I just didn't feel like sharing and voicing everything. See, writing is safe. Speaking is not.

It's getting harder and harder to write these articles. It's getting harder and harder to share how I'm feeling. It's getting harder and harder to think of the little baby and feel these things and I so badly just want to tuck them away. And sleep. A lot.

I don't really have a choice though. As a friend said, the sun comes up every morning whether you've coped with the day or not. I guess I'll just do my best, wipe my tears, play with my three little miracles and my husband the hero, and maybe, one day, my sun will come up, shine through the tears on my face and I'll get a rainbow.

Just not today. Maybe tomorrow.

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.