This is another old article that I never got around to publishing – I’m cleaning out my drafts and figured I may as well post it. The photo contains just a few of the 55 clowns that I packed up. I gave several away. I kept one, just becausebut it may end up out of sight.
For years, 131 Beecroft Road was at times my home and at other times my albatross. For so long, it was my home with my sister Michele, but I always felt like a visitor. When Michele died, it became a project – and if you know me, I’m always bored without one. I was feeling very lost when I started packing. It was at the height of the pandemic, so the only place that I could really go was there and like clockwork, for months, one day a week I went there to check the mail, check on the condo and begin the arduous process of packing up 35 years of my sister’s life.
Michele was a keeper of everything. People hold onto memories differently. Michele held on to them dearly, never throwing away a paper or a trinket. Clothes were her weakness, as were shoes, bags, clowns, books and more. She kept thousands of photos, cards, letters, souvenirs. As I went through her photos, so many ended up in the trash. Only a few scenery shots were kept, but every photo that has a person in it will come home with me.
It was hard for Michele to give up keepsakes. I threw away so many things, packed even more for donation, gave some furniture to cousins, other furniture to a woman in need and the rest will be donated to a furniture bank. My sister would be horrified, but they are only things. I don’t need a dresser to remember her or clowns (seriously, why clowns???? They are so creepy). Michele kept a nasty letter or two that my father wrote. They may have found their way into the recycling bin as well. I have no need to remember some of the things that he said. She kept copy after copy of an obituary of someone that she cared about, but who hurt her terribly. I wavered on whether I should keep one copy, knowing how important this person was to Michele. I decided no – they too belong in the trash.
People said that it must be difficult to pack things up. I think it gave me time to deal with Michele’s death with parts of Michele still around. I would look at some clothes that she never had a chance to wear, and think about the times we went shopping together or I would laugh at how much change she kept EVERYWHERE. She saved up more US coins than I’ll be able to spend in a lifetime. She kept address books with people’s names and birthdates carefully written out. I haven’t kept one in years; Michele never stopped preferring a tangible place to keep her people’s digits.
People always think about what they will discover about a person going through their things. I already knew what to expect. Part pack-rat, part sentimentalist – that was Michele. Keep, toss or donate – those were the piles. The donations and toss piles were huge, mountains even. The keep pile is small, mostly books that I’ll give away once I’ve read them and photos – the ever present photos…those I’ll treasure, but the other things….well, they are just things. Especially the clowns.
This is something that I started writing almost three years ago, after Michele died, but I couldn’t get passed the quote regarding the meaning behind the alignment of Saturn and Jupiter.
A friend told me that that the time of Michele’s passing was the exact time Saturn and Jupiter aligned for the first time in 800 years. Also called the Christmas Star, it’s ironic that it happened for my Jewish sister.
I found this online when I was trying to think if there was a deeper meaning for Michele dying on the night that this particular event was supposed to happen: “Among the planets, Jupiter and Saturn Conjunction in Capricorn is considered the Teacher for all gods in Vedic astrology. It is the only powerful and positive planet that never harms or has ill effects on anyone’s life.”
That was Michele, who was also a Capricorn – she never harmed, not had any ill effects on anyone’s life. In fact, my sister made people’s lives better, in her own unassuming way. But, isn’t it something that on the night she left, something so magical happened? It was like her end was the beginning of something else.
I think about how Michele’s end was the beginning. The beginning of a sadness that I had never known – that double dose of grief that I never wanted. BUT, it has also been the beginning of thinking about what she would have wanted. I think about how she would like to be remembered. People remember her as a brave, spunky, funny woman. That she was and so much more.
If anyone deserved to go out with the alignment of Saturn and Jupiter – the two biggest planets to match her big, brave heart, it was Michele.
I did some more digging and I also found this explanation of the alignment which I like even more than the first. Michele was a Saturn in a world filled with Jupiters – steady, calm, reliable Saturn:
“Jupiter and Saturn create the most complementary combination of interpersonal planets in astrology. Jupiter’s energy is expansive, optimistic, and inspiring, whereas Saturn’s energy is steady, realistic, and contained. When these two planets come together, it represents a time of old things dying and new things being born, a time where our idealistic and imaginative dreams start to consolidate and take form in our lives and the world around us.”
In many ways, this is very much the relationship that Michele and I had. I was always the Jupiter – always looking for something bigger and better, and Michele was just content with being her realistic self. I would go on to her about stupid things that I thought would be the perfect invention. Michele would roll her eyes and say, don’t you think that this already exists? She brought me down to earth.
The Saturns of the world are sometimes overlooked and overtaken, Michele certainly was, but there comes a time when you realize that those people, those Saturn people, literally and figuratively run circles around the bolder Jupiter. The largest planet in the solar system is something, but Saturn is arguably the most memorable.
It was my sister’s birthday today – the one day a year that she would be the Jupiter. The world stopped for one day for her – she just loved her birthday so much. I miss her so much today, but no more so than any other day. She left a void the size of Jupiter behind. She would roll her eyes at this whole analogy and I’m not sure what I buy into myself, but it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?
A friend of mine just lost her father yesterday. Naturally, she’s devastated. She asked me how you move forward from this kind of loss? My answer is part of my last blog – you live your life. That simple sentiment, if you are grieving, is also the hardest thing in the world to do. I know. I struggle every single day. But my sister left me four things to do before she died. One of them was to write…write a book, write a blog post…just write. I couldn’t figure out why it was so important to her, but I know now, that part of the reason was because she thought that I needed a purpose. Writing a book about caregiving, grief and more is part of that. She was smart that sister of mine.
Immediately after my sister died, I came home, put the furniture back where it belonged after I moved it earlier to make room for the EMTs. I took the world’s longest shower, stripped her bed, took one of her Ativans and got into bed. I was awake for 48 hours straight, but I knew that without help, that sleep wouldn’t come. I woke up the next morning, and showered again – I just didn’t feel clean. I felt like there was death everywhere with a smattering of guilt, but you can’t wash either away. I got ready and planned her funeral. That was the first step. The only step you need to take if you are in this unenviable position.
Day after day, I force myself to get up. I still need to take the world’s longest showers. I get dressed and work. I talk to people, my friends, my family. I sometimes walk into my sister’s room and wonder why she isn’t there. Some days, I still can’t believe that she’s gone. I work, I distract myself with all of the tasks that death brings. Dutifully looking after her estate. Continuing to manage my mother’s. Making sure that since we are now allowed to see people, after such a long time, that I make an effort and not just stay at home.
I force myself to socialize, but for me, right now, it’s still really hard to call or text. It feels overwhelming. People reach out – I respond. That’s easier – I don’t know why. It’s partly because I’ve had to make and continue to have to make really big decisions. I think that because I know that my life is different and that there is this big void still. While there is no expiration on your personal grief, there is a lot of pressure on a mourner to not bring up that loss. Sometimes, especially with me, because I’ve essentially lost everything, there is really nothing anyone can say to make it better. All that I can all do is put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward.
I wrote this in August 2021 – 8 months after Michele died and when we had a break from COVID lockdowns. I was cleaning out my drafts today and found it. I thought about not posting it, but thought again – Michele wanted me to write about this and it is her story too.
If you have been a caregiver, you know the guilt that I’m talking about. If you have a sibling that died, you know the survivor guilt that I have. As a caregiver, you think if only I had done this or that…if only. A lot of how I feel today isn’t all that different, but it’s easier to cope when I’m busy which seems to be all of the time.
I also know, that thanks to the words that Michele wrote for me, how she felt. I mean, my procrastinating sister didn’t write a ton for me, but enough and I’m so grateful for her every word.Â
One day, I’ll take each of these pages and edit them properly and put them in order, but not right now. Right now, I’m going to listen to what Michele told me and just get it down on paper and then worry about it.
I remember my mother always saying, “Remember Jill, laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.” Like every daughter, through the ages, I rolled my eyes at her. As I grow older, and have more life experience, I realize how true it is. People openly speak about mental health. Depression, OCDs, ADHD and more. I’m so happy about that – it should be an open discussion and mental health is everyone’s problem whether or not you suffer from any conditions. I’ve never had a mental illness. I’ve had about two days in my life where I couldn’t get out of bed because of grief. To be more exact, I got out of bed, and eventually went back to bed.
I know that I’m fortunate to have my mental health. But, what I do find interesting is how grief is still something that people are so uncomfortable with and it has yet to be normalized even though it is something that we all go through.
In the space of 6 years, my father, mother and sister all died. I was estranged from my father, which made the whole situation so difficult, but thanks to my mother and sister, I was able to get through it relatively unscathed. When my mother died, it felt like I was lost and that I would never find my way again, but I had my sister, Michele. She explained to me why the loss hit me so hard that there were days that I could barely breathe. “You looked after her. Sure, we had help, but you did everything else for her.” She just understood and that only comes with someone who shares your history from the beginning of your time.
When Michele died, it was different. I was her primary caregiver until two weeks before she died. When she died, I lost not only my sister and best friend, I lost my purpose – a purpose that I lost two times over with the death of my mother. We were going through a pandemic and I had to figure out my life without the support that was so important to me. The challenge with grief though is that you have a handful of people that truly want to listen. I get it, you become a reminder of the loss that grief represents past grief for some and future grief for others.
“Just let me know if you need anything” becomes the mantra of the well intentioned masses. Ok – but when I don’t know what I need and I can barely think for myself, how do I know what to ask for? “The firsts will be tough, then it gets easier” say a knowing few. It’s a nice thought, but the truth is the second and third are pretty hard too. The fourth is no easier. “At least she isn’t suffering anymore”. Yes, you nod, so true. But please, that’s still my loved one – I know that intellectually, but the grieving heart doesn’t care. “Michele is with your Mom.” Yes, hopefully, she is, but I’d like her here on Earth where she belongs. People also don’t understand the guilt that comes with being the one who is still alive.
Platitudes drift away as the months go by. I had a newish friend ask me something about how Michele died because that’s also a common question. I was telling her the story, and I could sense that she really didn’t want to hear it. I started to cry, because it was still pretty fresh. She was uncomfortable with my sadness. I got myself sorted because I know this much is true – grief after a certain period of time just isn’t acceptable. It’s almost a relief when you speak to someone new, who doesn’t know about your situation. For a few short minutes, days or weeks, you can be the person that you were BD – before death. Until they ask about your family…then it all changes and you realize that you have to face where your life is right now. AD – after the death of your loved one. Your life forever separated into those two parts.
Now before I go on, I should say that I am so fortunate. I have friends and cousins who support me. I’m so grateful every single day for them. They want me to talk about it, and encourage me to. I honestly never expected to have such a good support system. But, I still believe that as a society, we put pressure on people who are mourning to just get over it.
Think about it. You get three days off from work if your child (seriously – a child), parent, sibling or spouse dies. One day for a grandparent, cousin, uncle or aunt. I had to take vacation time to sit shiva for my mother. At a time in your life when you are barely getting over the shock of losing a loved one, you are expected to be able to resume your job.
People can go on stress leave, but they cannot properly mourn their immediate family. Someone asked me how I was feeling after my sister’s unveiling. My answer, “I feel like I really want my mother, but at the same time, I’m happy she isn’t here.” I would never want my mother to face the death of her child. Nor would I expect her to be ready three days later to resume her life.
I always think that no one ever reads this blog, that it’s my place where I can just write whatever I feel like. Happy, sad, indifferent. Then I see the people from around the world that read it. I still think of it as my place but there is a door here that is open. I hope one day to write the book that Michele always wanted me to and in some ways, each entry to this blog is a page of that book written out of order. I hope that it will help normalize the discussion around grieving.
The thing that gave me the most help with coping with my sister’s death was a book called “Surviving the Death of an Adult Sibling”. It brought me such comfort reading the perspectives of people who were on the same journey as I am because I only know a very small group of people that have lost a sibling. If you are in the same position or just want to help someone who is, here is the link: https://www.amazon.ca/Surviving-Death-Sibling-Through-Brother/dp/0609809806
I’m just going to go ahead and say it – I hate my birthday. I have for most of my life. I could never put my finger on it. Maybe it’s because I was a summer baby and birthday parties just didn’t happen for us. Maybe because I spent time at camp and it just wasn’t a big deal there. My mother and sister were both dismayed by my birthday hatred.
Now that they are gone, birthdays seem like ever more of a chore to me. People try to make it special but without the person that gave birth to me and the sister who was there for me my whole life, I just don’t really want to celebrate. I don’t know if it is because they can’t celebrate, so why should I be able to or if it just doesn’t feel special anymore.
The first birthday after my mother died, I cried the entire day. My sister tried so hard to make it special for me. She took me for high tea – I cried non-stop from the moment we left the house to the time the tea was over. I told her that our mother would be flattered, and Michele looked at me, and shook her head and said, “No Jill, she wouldn’t.”
I cried the first birthday that after my sister died too. I know that she would have hated that, but it’s just how it is.
Tonight is the eve before my second birthday without Michele and the fifth without my mother. I can tell you that I’ve been crying for hours and I’m totally fine with that BUT because something incredible happened.
I’m very organized, but when it comes to stupid things, I have a tendency to procrastinate. Michele bought me a smoothie blender a number of years ago. It sat, unopened, in a box at the condo that I’m packing up to sell. I decided to bring it to my home and open it today, the day before my birthday. As I took the box out of the bag to open it, a card fell out. It was a birthday card for me from Michele. It was one that I had never seen before. I opened it – and it was by far the dumbest card that I’ve ever seen BUT I will cherish it forever – bad donut jokes and all.
Michele always wanted to be the first person to wish me a happy birthday. Somehow, even beyond the grave she succeeded and I love her for it.
The days go by slow, but the years go by fast…my “frousin” Margo says and it is so true. Every day feels long, but somehow the weeks slip by so quickly. I wake up, and it’s Monday, and I blink and somehow it’s Friday. Day after day, I wake up, and I get out of bed, and shower and get dressed and go on with my life, because that is what I have to do. My mother and sister didn’t fight so hard to live, so that I just lay down and die. That’s what I tell myself every single day. People say, oh you can move on with your life now – but it was never a burden before. I went from caregiver to estate gatekeeper. I went from a daughter and sister to being an orphan. People expect life to go on, and I think that is really their hope. What you are as a mourner is a window to future grief for others. And it’s scary – I know. It is part of life. I know. Sometimes, in the most profound way, moving on with your life is much harder than the high alert situation of being a caregiver.
If you ever have been a caregiver, you know what I mean by this statement. You look at your loved one’s colour. You ask, expectantly, and with a tiny bit of dread and fear, how they are feeling. You take temperatures, listen to breathing, hope that they’ll eat. You listen for coughing. You tiptoe into a room at night to make sure that they are breathing and sleeping peacefully. Sleeping becomes fitful (yours of course). You live in fear daily of what that day may bring or breathe a sigh of relief if the day was a good one.
You learn things that stay with you. Many don’t know this, but here is a sample of what I can do:
-I can give injections, both subcutaneous (yes, under the skin) or through a port
-I can hook up a portable oxygen tank
-I can inject morphine into someone’s mouth through a syringe without wasting a drop
-I can take a pulse
-I can tell you, in detail, what the difference is between HER2+ and HER2- breast cancer
-I can deal with vomit – lots and lots of vomit, get a bag to the person before they throw up and deal with cleanup after
-I can dress weeping wounds gently and carefully, keeping them clean and look out for infection
-I can turn an IV on and off
-I can lift a patient from their bed without hurting them
-I can move them in their bed by myself if I have to, but it is so much easier with help. It is a struggle though
-I can pay attention to details and advocate for a patient with a doctor or nurse if I have to
-I can tell you what a number of different chemo/immunotherapy drugs are, and what side effects my sister and mother had from them
-I can make a person’s final wishes happen and speak to doctors and nurses about what was in their living will
-The hardest thing that I can and have done is tell someone that it’s ok to go – that I’ll be ok and they will too. I’ve had to do this twice, and each time, it cost me so much more than I can explain
I’m not telling you this so that you’ll admire me or pity me. I’m telling you this so that if you are a caregiver too, that you know that there are people that understand. You will never be the person that you were before, and that’s ok. Take your time. You will still have plenty to deal with after – mentally and physically. Think about what you have had to learn to do. It’s a lot isn’t it? It’s even harder during a pandemic with less help available. But you will find a way. All I know is that taking care of the two women in the photo was the greatest thing that I will ever do in my life.
A few months ago, I received a message from my step-sister letting me know that she had some of my father’s things and offered to ship them to me. This was very kind given that we only met once. My father and I had a strained relationship at best. I am not going to get into the details. It is no longer a factor in my life, and even though I had issues with my father, I do not have Daddy issues. To be fair to someone who cannot defend themselves, those problems belong in the past. I forgave my father a long time ago. I am writing about it today because it is the fourth anniversary of my father’s funeral.
I was curious to see what would be in the box and two padded envelopes that were coming. Maybe a piece of information that would help me understand my father a little, maybe an unseen photo of my mother (likely not) or even my mother’s parents. The box and packages came separately, and when I opened them, it was a lot of family photos from my father’s side of the family. I didn’t really know many of the people. There were a couple of photos of me, and many more of my sisters (the curse of being the youngest child). They also contained his medical diplomas, a cub scout hat from when he was a child, two rings (his medical school ring and a class ring) and finally a digital watch and a couple of other men’s “fashion” watches.
The items themselves didn’t make me feel much of anything. What saddened me the most was that his life came down to a little white box. Imagine living for 83 years, and that is your legacy. I think about my mother, and her life was so much more. Recently, I had a charity come and pick up most of her clothes, some kitchenware, books, cds, toys and a few knick knacks. It was just under 20 boxes and bags. I’ve thrown out 8 garbage bags of things and gave another couple of bags to a senior’s home. Her house is still crowded with her life, her things. My mother had a bigger life. She had interests. She was an artist – a pottery and needlepoint buff. She had so many photos and other treasures. It is all proof to me that she was once vibrantly alive.
My father didn’t have a big life. He was all about his medical practice. He enjoyed gardening and reading, but he was also very introverted. My mother had a presence about her. I remember watching her at her sickest moments, noticing that she still had a spark – a will to live. When I saw my father in February of 2015 for the first time in almost 20 years, it would also be the last time that I saw him. He was gravely ill, but even worse, he didn’t have that energy, that will, that my mother did. My mother’s death left me aching for her presence, but comforted in the fact that I can see that her life had meaning, because of what she created and because of the impact that she had on people. My father’s death left me sad for a person that didn’t have an anchor. When I grieve for my mother, I grieve for her loss and for what I lost. When grieved for my father, it was for the things that I never had. Now what I have is that little white box.
“What is it like?” I was asked by a woman who shall remain nameless. “What is what like?”, although I knew the answer before she told me….”What does it feel like when you lose your mother? I’m so close to mine that I can’t even imagine…” She looked at me pleadingly, and I asked her if she really wanted to know and she nodded. “It’s a ache in your heart that just never goes away. It is a nervous buzzing in your stomach that gives you a feeling of always being on edge. It is a lump in your throat that you cannot swallow away. You cry in unexpected places at unexpected times because you saw a mother with her child and it made you miss yours. There is the feeling that you are seeking something that you can no longer find. The best days are bittersweet because you can’t share your happiness with the person that would take the most joy from it. The difficult days are even harder because your mother is no longer there to comfort you. That is the best way I can describe it.” She looked at me with such shock and horror that I almost regretted telling her.
Grief has become my comfort and my foe. It is always there, a feeling like a dam that can burst at any time. It is a comfort because it has been a constant, and it is my foe because of how easy it could be to just be about it. I feel myself moving on, but more because that’s what I know that my mother would want, and even in death, I cannot disappoint her. Days go by quickly, and in some ways in slow motion. People expect after a period of time that your mourning has ended once you get through all of the firsts, but I want to tell them that it is just the beginning. I’ve had half of my life with my mother, and I will likely have to live without her for almost as long. A year, a day, really, it’s the same. When I have a bad day, I remember a moment when I was beside myself, wondering what I would do without her, and how I could cope with my sister’s illness. When I said to her, “Mummy, what am I going to do?” She said, simply, and knowing what I meant, “You’ll live your life.”
When I think about my mother, I think of the silly little things that I miss. They make me smile when it is one of those days. In no particular order, they are:
She would say, “I’m not happy.” and I’d ask her “So which one are you?” and she’d say, “Dopey.” Get it? Like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
When I was in her little storage room/office, I’d drop something, and she would say, “Is that you Dayo (her nickname for me)?” At first it would be lovingly said, then as I’d drop something else or hit my head as I always did, she would say, “JILL – what the eff are you doing in there?” Patience was not her strong suit, but it was funny.
When she had one of her road rage moments in the car, giving someone the finger and swearing at them, and then looking at me with a big smile on her face as I barked like a dog at her.
Laughing so hard at something together, that we were in tears, hyperventilating. This happened often and never stopped, no matter how sick she got.
Sitting on the subway with her, as she stared at some weirdo or someone with a mohawk or who looked like they were carrying a knife, and me telling her to stop staring, that she was going to get stabbed, and she would continue to stare anyway while I rolled my eyes at her.
Going to anything and being in the audience with her. My mother didn’t applaud like everyone else, she cheered and whooped loudly and proudly as my heart sank with embarassment at her.
My sister is the treat queen and often hid candy at my mother’s, because my mother never found a cookie, cake, candy or pie that she didn’t like. She somehow always found the stash. One day, she told me to get her the jujubes that my sister had hidden, but when I went to get them for her, there were only green, yellow and black ones left. My mother had eaten all of the red and orange ones. She told me to go put the bag away, she didn’t like those colours and to get her something else. BRAT.
The squeak of horror when she opened a menu on the one day a year, her birthday, that she would let us take her for dinner. Well, she didn’t allow us to take her, I had to tell her that it wasn’t gracious to rob us of the joy of taking her out. She was miserable, and acted like she had never seen the prices on the menu before, as she tsk-ed at each item. I also had to tell her if she ordered water and bread sticks, that we would take her out until she ate like a lady.
The frantic phone call that I received when there was rain or snow. I also had to reassure her that I had an umbrella and/or a winter coat that I would zip up – every single time.
Her shaking her head at me, with a big smile on her face, when I would do or say something silly.
Her big smile when she would give me the finger.
Her big smile when I walked in a room.
Her big smile….
My mother had an amazing smile – it lit up her whole face. It was like she put everything she had into it. My mother was tiny, but her presence was so large. She filled a room even though, she took up so little space. Not a day goes by that I don’t get a little teary remembering something that she did or said. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember her strength and that is what gets me through missing her. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank my lucky stars that I had the world’s best mother. I think of a quote that I read at my mother’s funeral – “How lucky I am to having something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” How lucky indeed.
People posted their top nine moments of 2018 all over Instagram. My moments of the year are likely different than a lot of others. They are what I think of as the beautiful awful. When my mother died 321 days ago, on March 3 (yes I know how many days it has been), my life changed forever. I knew that 2018 would be the year that I would lose her and I knew that I would feel profound sadness, but I also did not realize that in that grief, there would also be moments of beauty.
My mother was an exceptional person, not just OK, not just a wonderful mother, but exceptional. She suffered with a smile on her face and even though she was in pain, in her final days she was surrounded by so much love and so much genuine affection, she had the death that she deserved. In the weeks leading up to what we knew was imminent, I saw quiet moments with her sister just holding her hand. I had my cousin, her son, come by to see her, putting a smile on her face. I remember her singing Happy Birthday to him – those are the last words that I remember her saying. I remember calling him one day, in tears, but getting his long time girlfriend instead, and she told me that what I was feeling was normal; she had lost her mother a few years before and reassured me that it was OK to feel this wave of grief. I remember my cousins in Florida asking me if we needed them there and when I said yes, they packed up everything and came and they acted like it was no big deal. I remember their daughter coming over and keeping my mother’s spirits up, knowing how bad it was. I remember my other cousins coming, surrounding my mother with love. I remember them comforting me and my sisters. There were always at least a dozen people around all day, everyday. I remember them forcing me to go out, go for a walk to get some air. I remember my friends offering to come, even though my mother was so terribly sick.
I remember the palliative doctor and nurse being so kind, and telling us how to ease her into death, not just by pain relief, but by just continuing to talk to her, even if she wasn’t conscious. The nurse hugged us and told us that she could feel the love in the room. I remember her care givers treating her so gently, and with so much love. The last night of her life, I remember we were all with her. One, by one, everyone got ready for bed. I was going to be up for a long time, and I was sleeping in bed with her at night to give her injections. When it was just me, and her caregiver (my sister literally left the room), I was holding her hand and she slipped away so quietly and so peacefully that there was even something beautiful in that moment.
There was beauty at her funeral. When she was buried, it was warm and sunny for a winter day. At the exact moment, when her casket was being lowered, it got warmer, and just a little brighter. I thought I imagined it, but when I looked at my sister and said, “Did you feel that, it just got warmer?”, she was looking at me, saying the same thing. We had so many people looking out for us the week of her shiva (the Jewish week of mourning and visitations) and in the weeks after, that it took awhile for reality to set in. I remember the first night of her shiva, my friend, who is my cousin, wanted to do something, anything, and he and his wonderful partner made all of the beds (including one on the floor and one on a chaise lounge). When I started to cry, they understood it was because it had been almost a year and a half since I had seen my mother’s bed made – she had been in it for so long. Even throughout the year, long after her death, her friends, and our family, continue to look out for us, and to remind us how much she is still loved, even if she is no longer here.
I will also remember how people have rallied around my sister while she continues to go through chemo. Our friends and family always call to check up on us. Our cousin always picks us up after her appointment and her doctor and nurses so clearly want the best for her that it warms my heart to go to her appointments. When I broke my ankle, our cousins and her friend were there to take my place at chemo. My sister continues to do as our mother did and not let this be all about her disease. She makes the most of her good days and takes it easier on the rougher ones, but she so rarely complains.
When I broke my ankle and needed surgery in the late summer, it was just one more thing in a year crowded with challenges. Even though the situation sucked, there were still moments that I will never forget. My friend staying in the ER with me, even though I tried to send her home numerous times. She was even there when they re-set my bone. There was my guardian angel of the ankles, showing up the day of my surgery and name dropping so that the doctors knew that I was not just an ordinary patient. He not only kept my sister company, but checked on me daily, reminding me that it is a marathon, not a sprint to get better. There was my dear friend who waited with my sister too and got me home. He took me out in my wheelchair a few times (and laughed at me each time). I had more than 50 visitors in the 6 weeks that I was laid up, from my food-delivering cousins to my close friends who baby sat me reminded me of their own injuries and those of their family when I was getting impatient keeping me entertained to my sweet (but feisty) British friend who has also been my life mentors and to everyone in between. I had one pity moment, but remembering my mother’s strength got me through that.
The last year left me a little bit more fragile than I have been before. Author Mary Gordon once wrote, “Afatherless girl thinks all things are possible and nothing is safe”. In my case, I would say, it’s a motherless girl. I still believe that all things are possible, but I no longer have the safety net of my biggest fan, harshest critic, comic relief and advice giver. This New Year, I decided to stop looking back at my old resolutions and try to figure out what my new ones would be. I’m going to be a little kinder to myself this year and just do as my wise mother suggested and live my life. Luckily, I have the beauty of memories of my little Mummy and her words of wisdom still with me whenever I need them.
Today was my mother’s unveiling ceremony. If you have never been to one, it literally is a ceremony where a headstone is unveiled and it is held within one year of the person’s death if they are Jewish. Planning it, from selecting the headstone, to writing the words that will live on long after I am gone, and planning all of the other details was, as I saw it, one of the last things that I could to honour a woman that I so admired. My sister, Michele and I decided last night, that I would say a few words. It was harder doing this than it was giving the eulogy at my mother’s funeral. The shock and numbness that I felt that day could no longer protect me from what I was feeling. There is a sense, on a day like this, of a wound that had never closed, reopening. Seeing my mother’s headstone reminded me that this loss is real, and now, it had a tangible aspect that it never had before.
I did not prepare or write down anything for today’s service. I just had a very vague idea of what I wanted to say. Some of my family, who could not be at the service, asked if I could blog about it; others who were there did not hear everything, asked for the same. Here is the gist of what I said:
“I first want to thank you all for coming out on such a cold day. Some of you, like my cousin, had to travel from out of town. My aunt is in from Ottawa, but I know that she had always planned on being here, for her sister. When coming up with the epitaph for my mother’s headstone, it was difficult to summarize everything that I was feeling in 5 words or less. Some of you many think, when you see it, that I was seeing my mother through rose-coloured glasses. That the words came from a child’s love for her mother. I actually took the words from Rabbi Chaim (Harold) Zelikovitz.
After my mother died, I showed my aunt my grandfather’s siddur (prayer book). It has to be about 100 years old. Harold had written a passage in it when my Zaydie died. She suggested that I should ask him to send me something about my mother, and here are his words:
Judith Zelikovitz Schneiderman returned her heroic, courageous and dearly beloved soul to her maker on 17 Adar 5778 (March 3, 2018). May she find comfort forever in the everlasting world. Rest peacefully. Never to be forgotten. Â
That is where the words for the epitaph – Heroic, Courageous and Dearly Beloved – come from. They seemed to perfectly describe my amazing mother who was exactly the person that I remember her to be.
We know that the loss of our mother does not just belong to me and my sisters. It belongs to all of you as well. You all miss her too. We wanted to make sure that we reflected that loss on her headstone. Â
I know how cold it is out, but I wanted to thank just a few more people. Emily, Narda, Grace, Julia and Angel – you all put the care in caregiver. You treated my mother like a cherished family member, not just a patient. You gave my sisters and me peace of mind and cared for our mother 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We are forever grateful to you. My mother cared about you all too. She would be deeply touched and so appreciative of the turn out today, and we are too.”
I had the chance to speak with some of my mother’s very close friends and her dear cousins today. It was so touching hearing what they thought of her. One of her friends told me that my mother would have been so proud today – that everything was done perfectly. That meant a lot to me, but no matter how perfect it was, it will never seem like enough. Today reminded me of how I felt the week that my mother died. I wondered, then, how something could be awful and beautiful at the same time. That week, my family, including my cherished mother, were surrounded by people and with so much love, even as we were losing her. Today, we were once again, surrounded with love, but this time, we all had to deal with the pain of her absence.
When I asked the Rabbi, who officiated at the unveiling, months ago where my mother would be once she died, he said something incredibly profound. He said, “The best way to explain it is that your mother will be everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.” That still makes perfect sense to me.
Jill Of Some Trades 