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?
I remember reading a book about journalist Daniel Pearl. When he was captured by Al-Qaeda in conjunction with other terrorist organizations years ago, he was made to say the following before his beheading:
“My name is Daniel Pearl. I’m a Jewish-American from Encino, California, USA. I come from, uh, on my father’s side the family is Zionist. My father’s Jewish, my mother’s Jewish, I’m Jewish. My family follows Judaism. We’ve made numerous family visits to Israel.”
Daniel Pearl was murdered for two crimes – being American but also being Jewish. Like many of the just over 15 million Jewish people around the world last week, I was horrified by Hamas’s massacre of innocent Israeli citizens last week. A better word to describe it would be a pogrom – violent attacks on Jewish people by those that are non-Jews. I was woken at 7am on Saturday by a text from one of my closest friends who was in Israel. He said that he was fine, but was in a bomb shelter near the airport just outside of Tel Aviv. I looked at the news immediately and sat with horror at what was happening to my people.
Part of me never thought that I would see this but part of me wasn’t altogether surprised. I’ve been to the Middle East. I’ve been to Israel during a war (also unprovoked). It gave me a small taste of what the citizens of Israel deal with daily. Although I knew at some point something would happen, I never imagined this pogrom – this horror. Women raped and then slaughtered or kidnapped. Children raped and murdered. Young Israelis at a rave hunted down and slaughtered with some kidnapped. Women bleeding from the crotch because they had been raped so many times being paraded in Gaza. A prone women – her body at an odd angle suggesting that she was dead being spit on by men in Gaza and then being driven around like a prize.
Tired of this yet? It goes on. Pregnant women cut open with their babies cut out – both left to die. Israeli soldiers murdered, stepped on and also beheaded. Most shocking and terrifying? Babies and young children slaughtered (just like the beautiful little girl in the photo), beheaded, burned alive or not – I guess it doesn’t matter. A father crying tears of joy and grief saying that he was happy that his beautiful, 8-year old daughter was dead instead of kidnapped because of the horrors that would have been inflicted upon her.
I know you are going to say but what about the Palestinians. There is absolutely a difference between Hamas and Palestinians. Hamas’s leaders live in luxury and safety in Qatar while they leave their citizens in squalor in Gaza. Hamas leaders siphon money that is meant for aid and use it to fund their lifestyle and terror attacks. Hamas wants the young Palestinian population poor and hopeless because when you have nothing else to lose, you will do the unthinkable. Think I’m making this up – think again – it’s finally out there in some Western newscasts. Hamas and the corrupt regime of terrorists leading Iran are the worst things to ever happen to the Palestinian people. Add in the Iranian people, the Lebanese people subjected to Hezbollah and of course Syria.
So what does all of this have to do with me? I am Jewish. I grew up with Jewish parents. I am a Zionist simply meaning that I support the right of Jewish people to self-determination in their indigenous homeland of Israel. It doesn’t mean that I hate anyone. It doesn’t mean that I think that the Palestinians don’t deserve their own country – it simply means that I support Israel’s right to exist and honour the history that dates back to the Old Testament.
It is important for me to write this, because as a minority, I’m shocked at the Antisemitism that I’m seeing both in Canada and around the world. Large gatherings of people saying “Fuck the Jews. Gas the Jews”. “All Jews should die”. “You deserved the Holocaust.” This is just a small taste of what is happening. This is scarier, in a way, than what is happening in Israel. We don’t have an army to protect us here.
Personally, I know people that are afraid, but I refuse to live in fear. I will not change my life to cater to terrorists and terrorist supporters. That is exactly what they want. My mother’s father, my grandfather, survived a pogrom, but never spoke about it. My mother had rotten vegetables thrown at her and was called a dirty Jew. I’ve been called a few names in my time and encountered Antisemitism of my own. My grandfather was strong, my mother was strong, and now it’s my turn. I won’t be silenced. I also won’t hate even though there are people who hate me and want me dead simply because I am Jewish. I know that people will fatigue of this war, just like they fatigue of others, but I can’t stay silent. Silence is complicity.
If I can change one person’s opinion, just one person who will see that I’m not a demon, because I’m Jewish, and that we are not evil, I will have accomplished something.
With that, let me introduce myself:
“My name is Jill Schneiderman. I’m a Jewish-Canadian from Toronto, Ontario, Canada. On my father’s and my mother’s side, the families are Zionist. My father was Jewish, my mother was Jewish, I’m Jewish. My family follows Judaism. I’ve made two visits to Israel to start, but I will travel there again in the future because Israel will never be destroyed as long as one Jewish heart beats.”
The days go by slow, but the years go by fast…as my cousin Margo would say. I’ve shared that before, but it bears repeating. Five years ago tomorrow, at 10:45pm, my mother will be gone for 5 years. Someone that I used to work with posted this about death on LinkedIn, “Death is one of those topics that until you experience it you avoid it and once the door is open, all you want to do is talk about it.” Very true – although I wish that I was an avoider versus a talker.
I’ve been blessed, or cursed with a very good memory, and I remember every detail of the day that my mother died. I’m not going to trigger warning this – if you have experienced grief – every day there is a trigger – warning or not, it doesn’t help. Back to March 3, 2018. It began like every other day of the beautiful awful – the week leading up to my mother’s eventual death and the support we had. I slept each night for about two hours. One of my mother’s caregivers would wake me every 90 minutes so that I could see if my mother was in pain or if she heard the death rattle. I would mindfully make sure that her pain pump was pressed and inject her with medication to stop the rattling.
I had all night with my mother, so I let the others have their time. They would call me from the other room of they needed me. Visitors would start arriving at ten and stay all day, sitting with my mother, forcing us to go outside for air and just being there for moral support. It was a Saturday, and I was feeling on edge. I had to get out and decided to make my mother’s minestrone soup. My Leo twin and a dear friend, met me for a coffee before I went to get some of the ingredients. This dear friend who will remain nameless (she would hate the attention), but she knows who she is, remembers every anniversary like this one and is always the first person to reach out. The fact that she has enough going on in her life, but makes the time to be my support to this day means the world. I hope that she knows that she has my support no matter what too.
After meeting said Leo twin, Michele called and wanted me to get a water dropper. My mother would sometimes lift her brows to respond to questions, and she was thirsty. I was sad to have missed this tiny bit of communication, and headed home quickly. For some reason, she didn’t want water after that, and I had a bad feeling. I left everyone and slowly started what Michele and I jokingly called death soup (mostly my bad taste, but my mother would have laughed). Once the soup was on the stove (around 830 at night), I was in the room with everyone. I remember that for some reason, I decided to wash my mother’s feet. I have no idea why. I bathed them carefully and put lotion on them.
One by one, people started getting ready for bed, but it was way too early. I lay next to my mother holding her hand, like I did every night. If something happened, I wanted her to know that I was with her. Her hand felt so small and frail. I checked her feet again, and they felt cold, so I put an extra blanket on them. Then, as I went back to my mother, Michele told her that she was going to brush her teeth and she would be right back to say good night. She told my mother that she was ok. I lay next to my mother and said, “So are we going to have another slumber party tonight Mummy?” I looked at her hand, and her fingertips were purple. Angel, her caregiver came in, and said “Jill, look at her lips – they are pale.” I looked and knew that this was it. I quickly took her pulse on her wrist, then her neck, and nothing. I remember crying out “Mummy please, no, just no.”
My mother died and it was so quiet and so peaceful and so quick. She just slipped away. All of this happened within the space of less then a minute. Everyone came running and I felt my family behind me hugging me as I hovered over my mother. I said to myself, you have 5 minutes and 5 minutes only to have a pity party, then you have to call the funeral home. The doctor came to declare that she was dead, and then the funeral home came and picked her up. We all went down with her one final time, and then they slowly drove her away. I remember everyone stayed in one spot, and I walked behind the hearse as long as I could. We all just stood there….it felt like time was frozen. The concierges stood outside with us too. Like everyone else, they loved my mother.
When we went upstairs and do you know what I did? I finished making that damn soup. I served it the next day and it was horrible – death soup was a compliment. It was fifty shades of foul. I guess emotions do go into what you make.
The days go by slow…and the years go by fast….let’s fast forward to another day, Michele’s unveiling. I always have a complex about the stones that I leave behind (it’s what Jewish people do for their dearly departed versus leaving flowers). My stones are always horrible. I looked at my mother’s grave and there were some beautiful stones that her friends left for her, but one in particular caught my eye. A stone painted with my mother’s name and a little red teapot. That stone was my favourite. One of my mother’s friends from pottery made it for her. They took the time, almost five years after she died to not only visit, but to hand paint a stone with her favourite colour, her favourite thing to make at pottery and her name.
When I say that my mother was amazing, what was especially amazing about her, beyond her intelligence and beyond her various talents, was her ability to connect with people. When people say things to me like your mother made the world a better place just for being in it, or that my beloved Mummy was who they hoped to be when they “grew up”, although they are already grown, it means the world to me. I remember her every single day. I miss her every single day, but thanks to her, I’m here in every way. So, yes, I do want to talk about death, because it’s important to normalize the conversation around it, but I also want to talk about life, my mother’s life, my sister’s life, because their claim to fame shouldn’t be that they died. It should be for the example that they set when they were here, alive and well or not.
For the rest of my life Mummy, no matter how long or short it is, I’ll forever be your grateful, lucky daughter and you will forever be my beloved mother. xoxo
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.
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.
Tomorrow night is Michele’s Hebrew Deathiversary AKA her yahrzeit. In some ways, having a second day to remember her is just reliving the saddest day of my life over and over again, but then I think about her every day. In many ways, when you are a caregiver, you are grieving in what is known as anticipatory grief. You grieve for how your loved one was. You grieve for the fact that time is limited and you are anticipating the worst day – self-explanatory. You are grieving for the pain that they are feeling, wishing you could bear some of that burden. Finally, you are grieving life as you once knew it.
When D-Day comes (yes, Death Day), you are never prepared. The emotions and how I see things changed with each death that I’ve experienced. My father’s death was different. When you are estranged, you mourn for what might have been not for what actually was. Luckily for me, my mother forced me to see my father a few months before he died. I felt horrible for him, but my father hadn’t changed and in my mother’s words, at least I have the peace of mind of knowing that I made the right decision so many years before.
When my mother died, I felt so much more. Many people assumed that I felt relief that my mother was no longer in pain. Externally, I agreed. Internally, I’ve never felt so lost in my life and wished that she was still here. I watched my mother suffer more than anyone should. I fought so hard for her to live, but one day, she looked at me and said no more. She was in so much pain, and I looked back at her and said “OK Mummy, no more.”
She still wouldn’t take more than Tylenol at that point but the end was near and I forced her to speak to the palliative care doctor about a self-dosage pump for morphine. She told me that she hated me that day. I told her that she could hate me, but I was doing it because I love her. Later on, I asked her if she meant it, even though I knew the answer. She shook her head. She also told Michele to “eff off” and she didn’t mean that either.
We then had to carry out what we knew her wishes were. I did what the doctor told me to do. I posted the DNR signs in conspicuous locations. I told people not to cry in front of my mother. We all told her that it was ok to let go. We were all in agreement on everything, but I was the one who slept with her at night to make sure that she was medicated properly.
That week I learned what so many caregivers knew before me – what it’s like to hold someone’s life in your hands. To be carrying out the wishes of my loved one but to feel so sick with guilt, that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I called to make sure that there was a spot at the cemetery where my mother wanted to be buried, and the woman on the line asked if I wanted to speak with the Rabbi. For the very first time in my life, I needed to. He was wonderful. He asked me a bit about the situation, and I told him what was happening. I told him about the guilt that I was carrying – how could I bear this responsibility and I needed to know what our faith said about this. I’m not religious, but there had to be some guidance.
I’ll never forget what he said to me, “Jill, I want you to listen to me very carefully and really hear what I am saying to you. Our laws are very specific that we cannot take someone’s life. What you and your family are doing by carrying out your mother’s wishes isn’t the same thing. It’s a mitzvah (basically a good deed). The mother that you love, and that you want, will never be coming back to you. You are helping her die with dignity and that is what our people believe in. The dead must be treated with dignity, and while you can’t hasten death, you can make it as comfortable as possible for your mother while she is living.”
For a brief moment, that helped, then once my mother died, I worried about everything. Michele was amazing. She was going through the same thing, but she had to bear the burden of chemotherapy and her own guilt about what she thought she was doing to me. She always reassured me when I questioned if I had done enough, cared enough. She helped me get through the guilt saying that we did the right thing, and that there was nothing more that I possibly could have done.
The day that Michele died, I had to carry out her living will. On five occasions, I had to repeat Michele’s wishes. Once to the EMTs, once to the ER nurse, once to the ER doctor, once to the palliative care nurse and once to the palliative care doctor. I asked the ER doctor what he would do if it was his loved one, and he said, “Your sister is very sick. She may live one or two days more if she’s treated and if it were me, I would keep her comfortable, which is exactly what you just told me to do.” And that is exactly what I did – repeating what my sister’s wishes were two more times. Silently dying inside each time I had to say it, but logically knowing that I was doing the right thing.
The same Rabbi who was so helpful when my mother died and who officiated at her funeral was also going to be at Michele’s little funeral. I reminded him of what he said when he asked me how I was doing and he told me that once again, I did the right thing.
Part of the guilt that I feel is because I survived and Michele didn’t, although I know that she wouldn’t want me to feel this way. I know that she felt guilty that I had to take care of her, but I never wanted her to feel that way either – it was the greatest honour of my life. I wouldn’t want her to go through the loss that I’m going through now and she wouldn’t want me to have to go through the draining illness that chemo and cancer’s perfect storm causes. But there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think why her. My selfless sister would hate that and she would tell me that I did the right thing. She would also tell me to live my life which I’m doing. If you are the decision maker, always remember that you did the right thing too.
In a previous blog, I spoke about how someone once asked me what it was like to lose your mother, out of fear likely. what I said was: “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 didn’t ask about what it was like to lose a sibling, because Michele was alive at that point, but here is the answer to the question that no one asked. “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 two sisters together 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 one of the people that would take the most joy from it. The difficult days are even harder because your sister is no longer there to comfort you. That is the best way I can describe it.”
I will never not miss Michele. I’m grateful to be here to remind people that she lived, that she was loved and to make sure that her memory is honoured. She was my hero.
I am writing you on the occasion of your second deathiversary which is tomorrow at 6:45pm. Now, you can’t imagine how stupid that I feel writing this as a letter to you, now a dead person, but out of everyone, I thought you would also understand why I need to. I wanted to share, in honour of Chanukah, 8 things that big, or small, I miss about you. Think of it as a continuation of your eulogy or even the unveiling speech. It would mean a lot more to me if I could say them in person, but here we are.
I miss how you always encouraged me to write a book. I know that you always wanted it to be about your Mom and my Mummy, but when I told you how I wanted to write about caregiving (and the aftermath), you liked that. I know that you didn’t want to be part of the story, but you are crucial to it and everything that I write here, in an edited way will be part of that book, even this letter that I’m writing to you now.
I miss how you would honestly rate every meal that I cooked for you during the pandemic on our scale of one to ten. You didn’t just think about it, you thought about it before you gave me a number. I remember when I made chicken soup and you told me it was amazing. I asked if it was a ten and you said “9.9 – you aren’t getting a 10 from me. You need something to strive for.” Then, when I made Eton Mess for you, you gave it an 11 – you and your sweet tooth.
I miss your exaggerated sighs and eye rolls when I would trip and you would say “You know you are a real klutz”. You think Michele? I also miss how much you worried about me when I was injured. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you came into the room after my surgery – you looked so scared. I’ll also never forget how upset you were 5 days later when you had to leave me alone (bedridden, but don’t feel guilty) and go to chemo for a full day. I assured you that I would be fine and that I would only be alone for two hours because people were coming to visit, but I know you worried about me the same way that I worried about you.
I miss how you were genuinely happy for me when I achieved something either in my career or if I had something really great happen in life. You came with me to Princess Margaret when I won some certificate for “Colour to Conquer Cancer”. I’m sure that there were other places you would rather be, but there you were. You came because you knew that I did it for you (and Mummy), and you were so proud. I still find it weird that people are jealous of other people’s good news because I had you as a role model.
I miss telling you what I did during the day. I remember during the pandemic when I was looking after you, I would tell you what I was working on. On a day where I felt like I did nothing, you said “Tell me what you did today” and then assured me that I was doing more than enough. It became part of my day and even when you died, I would still tell you. I wished that you could answer though.
I miss calling you with a stupid question or you calling me to remind me of something stupid. If I had a dime for every time you called me to tell me “It’s 20 times the points at Shoppers Drug Mart”, I’d have at least $100 – it doesn’t sound like a lot, but it is dimes that we are talking about.
I miss you wanting me to love my birthday which is still my least favourite day of the year. I remember the year Mummy died, you tried so hard. You took me for high tea and I cried the entire time, and when I said “Mummy would be flattered that I’m so upset,” you said, “Actually, no MOM (not Mummy) wouldn’t. She would be very upset with you.” I knew that it was true, so I pulled myself together. Then we went to see whatever the second Mama Mia was called because you thought, what could happen in a movie with Abba songs? Of course the mother was dead, so I started crying again. You looked at me, threw up your hands and said, “Maybe this wasn’t the best choice. Sorry.” Then we both cracked up.
Most of all, I miss my best friend. You worried about how tired I was taking care of you. You worried about what I was going to do and how I would be once you were gone. You asked people to take care of me when you would no longer be here. You left me a diary – with not that many entries – but Michele, it is your words to me. The last birthday card you wrote for me is up on the fridge. You told me how proud you were of the way I looked after you. You told me that our mother was proud of me. You told me the things that I needed to hear. That card and your diary are the greatest gifts that I will ever receive.
Michele – I will never forget that last day. I will never forget how hard it was and what it cost me and how heartbroken I still am. But it was worth it because I was able to be with you. I held your hand, I spoke to you all day about things that we did together. My last words to you the minute before your died were “Michele, I love you. I’ve got you here and Mummy has you on the other side. We are both with you.” It’s still true to this day. You mouthed “Mom” and then you lay back and died. I’ll never forget that – I take comfort in the fact that maybe she came for you. You were the two bravest people that I’ve ever known. You were my heroes.
Love Jill
PS – If you were still here, I would have to tell you how annoying you are. I also miss when I would say that to you and your response would always be “You think you are perfect? You annoy me too.”
The one question I have had to field constantly since Michele died is have you sold the other condo yet? The answer is no. After 25,000 why nots and a few oh it must be so hard for yous….I decided to make this a page in the book that my sister wanted me to write. One of her other wishes was the I get rid of her clothes immediately. Well, here is the story of packing her things up.
When I first started going through Michele’s things in January of 2021, it was overwhelming, and not because I was desperately sad, which I was. It was the sheer volume of the task. My sister, though I love her dearly, was a pack rat and couldn’t pass up a sale if she tried. I decided to start with her closet first. I opened it, then quickly closed it, then opened it again. What I saw in front of me was clothing Jenga. I feared if I pulled out, that I would be buried under a mountain of clothes. I gamely had garbage bags to stuff the clothes in and had a strategy of threes. Donate, keep or toss. Value Village will take things like orphan socks so that they don’t end up in land fills so I kept that in mind.
I took out the first piece of clothing and then worked for three hours straight. As I started sorting, I found so many clothes that still had tags. I put those on Michele’s bed. I continued to look at items for donation. After the first day, I had five bags ready to donate and half a bag ready for the garbage. This was when we were going through another lockdown so I couldn’t have anyone come and help.
Week after week, I would sort. I could only go once a week, and I couldn’t stay for more than a few hours. After concentrating on her closet for weeks, I decided to pack up the book case in her room using the same keep, toss and donate model. I was able to get through that in one day. I just didn’t have enough boxes to pack all of them up. They went into the living room to continue to clear out Michele’s room. If it wasn’t for the empty book case, it would have looked like I really did nothing – there was the aforementioned volume. I also had to contend with clothing at my now condo that my sister had there – and it too was plentiful.
I started just going through her makeup and threw out 11 kitchen catchers full of cosmetics. I kept numerous bottles of shampoo, toothpaste and body wash for myself and put together some packages for donation to the homeless. At one point, my cousin came over and helped me bring 28 bags of clothing to Value Village along with ten boxes of assorted other stuff like her old tapes, some records and knick knacks.
I had 1-800 Got Junk come and take out all of the old bathroom fixtures (there was a leak in one of the bathrooms and it had to be gutted). I also had them take a box of old blank video cassettes that had to be disposed of properly, a few pieces of Michele’s treasured furniture (my grandmother’s ottoman that had a holes and a little chair), old tiles and some other garbage. It ended up being a half a truck. Yet the condo still looked full.
I gave our Frousin, who is like a little sister, Michele’s nicest (and biggest) bag so that she would have something nice to remember Michele by. I gave my dear friend 11 pairs of Michele’s shoes (from both condos) and a bag that I thought that she would like. I gave my cleaning lady a bag of clothes, another gym bag packed with clothes, 10 pairs of shoes and a bag. I gave another friend another bag. I gave another one of Michele’s friends one of her bags. Four bags of clothes and toiletries went to the homeless. And still I packed.
I decided to keep all of the clothes that still had tags and put those, along with some of Michele’s remaining shoes and bags that I didn’t want on Poshmark and decided to donate the funds to the North York General Hospital Foundation in Michele’s memory and in honour of her oncologist and the nurses who cared for her. To date, I’ve sold 111 of her clothes, makeup, shoes and bags there with another 5 of my mother’s bags that Michele wouldn’t let me get rid up when we were cleaning out the closet. Last year, I was more diligent and donated $1,500 through selling 29 pairs of her shoes, 21 bags, assorted clothes and makeup. This year, I’ll only donated $500 + whatever I sell before the end of the year….I’m keeping only a handful of Michele’s bags and clothes for myself. and still I’m packing.
I packed up 55 clowns – Michele’s favourite and my least favourite. I gave away 4 and still, I pack. I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I gave away a huge bag of knitting wool and knitting needles. I packed up boxes of crafts. I gave away scrapbooking materials. My cousins, who are only in Canada for two years, took furniture and that really helped me see progress. The dining room table is gone, along with two book cases, two small tables, Michele’s mirror, highboy and dresser, two table lamps and one floor lamp. I threw out 3 large boxes of garbage, 2 garbage bags, a lamp, a medicine cabinet and assorted other goodies, and I’m still working. I have about 25 boxes that need to be donated and yes, I’m still packing. And yes, I will finish this soon, get that condo renovated and sold. I will be getting rid of most of my mother’s antiques too.
So when people ask why it’s taking so long…well, you didn’t know Michele. My cousins who took the furniture asked if it bothered me packing up her things. I answered truthfully, because I could tell that they genuinely wanted to know. They are just things, so generally no, I said. It’s the weirdest things that bring a lump to my throat. A dress that would have looked so nice on her that she never had the chance to wear – partly because she died and partly because it was buried so deeply in her closet that she never would have found it. It’s the birthday cards that she kept. It’s photos of family birthdays, photos of my mother and Michele together, forever frozen in that one moment in time….
So no, they are just things and they can be replaced. People and memories are not replaceable. And my sister was definitely not replaceable, although I would love to have a word or two with her about how I could have opened a thrift store and would have still had inventory with just her things.
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.
I asked my cousin Howie to give a Eulogy for Michele at her funeral. We were all very close, and I know that she would have wanted him to speak. His eulogy was beautiful and heartfelt and perfect for my sister.
I saw two pictures recently that captured the essence of Michele. The first one – a young Michele holding infant, Jill, on her lap. What leaped off the photo was pure joy and love. The joy that Jill brought to Michele’s life and the love that Michele had for her baby sister. I also think somehow that Michele was smiling so broadly because she knew there would be few times in life like this where Jill wouldn’t talk back to her.
The second picture was a few years later – Michele dressed up in a pant suit, purse in her left hand and the other hand holding hands with Jill. Literally and figuratively, they have always been holding each other’s hands. Their bond was so special and strong that nothing could ever break it.
These two pictures sum up Michele, a devoted daughter to Judy, adoring granddaughter to Nathan and Sara, a loving sister to Jill and a loyal cousin and friend to the people who were a part of her life.
Michele was vivacious, and had a sharp wit about her. Whenever I was about to travel, she must have marked it in her calendar to start calling me the week before and each conversation her first words were, “Packed yet?”. She knew I wasn’t but it was her little dig at me. After all, anytime she was set to go somewhere, the bag was probably packed and ready to go from the moment the trip was booked. It didn’t matter where, it didn’t matter when, she was ready to go.
Michele was genuine, straightforward and courageous. I valued her opinion because she never told me what I wanted to hear, she told me what I needed to hear. I drove her to Sunnybrook one day for an appointment with her diabetic doctor. I parked the car and before we got out Michele told me she had cancer. Everything stopped inside of me, she looked at me and said, “Howie…..my mother is a fighter and so am I. I promised her I would fight this and I’m going to keep my word.” Then she got out of the car, and marched into the hospital head held high. Her head was always held high. Each time Michele would have to change treatments, she would get on the phone with me and say, “I’ve had my pity party, now we move on”. And move on, she did. Always with Jill at her side and Judy looking over the two of them.
Once her treatments began, the first time I saw her wearing a wig, she pranced around the room showing it off like a crown. That brief action was a testament to how courageous she was and that she was going to fight on her own terms.
During the last nine months, when we had to be especially careful with contact, the majority of our communication was by phone. She always wanted to know where I was going, I would tell her and her response would be “again?” We only saw each other only on a handful of occasions. There are 2 that will always stay with me. While the weather was still nice, Sandy and I were able to sit on a patio in Yorkville and have dinner with the girls. It gave us a chance to walk together enjoy the weather and just be as though life had not changed. Sandy and I also were able to spend Rosh Hashanah dinner with Michele and Jill. It was a special evening and Michele was quite upbeat, teasing Jill about the accomplished cook that she was becoming.
In the last month, Michele couldn’t speak to me however on Monday I was able to speak with her twice. Even though she didn’t respond I know she heard me. I told her she was brave, courageous I told her I love her. I know that Michele, Judy, Zaidie and Bobbie will be looking down on Jill to keep her safe and Michele, I will keep my promise to you to make sure I look after her down here.
Jill Of Some Trades 