Today, my son pulled Harry the Dirty Dog off of his shelf to read. And I burst into tears.
For four happy years, I shared a 7x15 office with Barbara Katz. Happy years, because in spite of our overcrowding, and the fact that we both had faculties of nursery school and religious school teachers coming and going from this minuscule space, we developed a deep friendship. Our relationship was born out of a tiny impersonal space and grew out of a love for children and a love for books, a mutual annoyance with office and synagogue politics, exasperation with our disorganized colleagues, the death of two inlaws and a grandfather, a pregnancy and birth of a child, and a million other tiny routine things that brought us close. I used to say that if things didn't work out between me and my husband, I would marry Barbara. I hope her husband Michael, her college sweetheart, found that funny...
We fought with our husbands in the same space, whispering into the phone. She checked up on her 3 children by phone and email while I chatted with my parents and friends, and although we maintained our privacy, we grew to know intimate details of each others' lives. She was allergic to curry, I knew, because we used to order in soup together from a local takeout place that often had curried corn chowder. She regaled me with funny stories about her students, who loved her and called her by both her first and last names, stories so vivid and told with such vigor and joy that they could be nothing but the truth. She never minded that I pretended to be my own secretary (I didn't have one) and anonymously answered my own calls--in fact, she found it funny.
We were then separated, she to a lovely new office and me, still in our cubby hole, alone with my books and stuff. I longed for her and would find myself hanging out in her space, just to hear what she had to say about a ridiculous parent of a student, or help her figure out Microsoft Word. And a year went by, one where I needed lots of advice and help as I figured out how to make it as a new mother, and one where I craved her comfort and her ready laugh. Not 50 feet away, but she was still too far. I actually had to call her on the phone sometimes from my office!
Then, as summer was waning and we were wrapping up our August preparations for the new year, she went on vacation. And in the cab on the way to the airport, she had a seizure and was rushed to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I don't think anyone imagined that she would recover. But she did, slowly, getting her confidence and movement back, after extensive surgery, wearing a cap or beautiful flowy scarf, and eventually returning to the work she loved so much. She managed the entire thing with the grace and courage that she managed everything else, and I know that she left an indelible impression on everyone with the way that she handled her own illness. And then, this past fall, she got sick again.
Barbara died on Sunday, leaving three beautiful children in their 20's who are suffering tremendously. Three children who will miss their mother every day forever, who feel cheated because she won't be there for them and celebrate their birthdays, dance at their weddings, and hold her grandchildren. And she left her husband, a man whose humor, wisdom and grace matches hers perfectly, a true partner, alone, with a broken heart. His eulogy was a love note to her, and I wish that she had heard it. But I am sure he told it to her every day, in other ways.
This tremendous woman, filled with a natural sense of humor that never offended and was always truly funny, who loved books and gave them as perfectly matched gifts to their recipients, who believed that children deserve to be nurtured and supported over learning their ABC's, who gave hugs to everyone, was my friend. She was genuine and not pretentious, loved wearing her art smock, kept a suit in a closet at work just in case she needed to look dressier, and loved bicycling (but not too much). A light in this world has gone out, and the entire world is darker and sadder for it.
I was not a good friend to her in the last months of her life. I didn't visit as I should have and didn't take my son over to visit so that she could have some joy in watching him read Harry the Dirty Dog or Amos and Boris, or any of her other favorites that she had given to him. I had my own crap going on. It is no excuse, but it is the truth. I was afraid. I was also losing my aunt, about whom I wrote often in this blog. It is something I will forever regret and I will not make the mistake of allowing it to happen again. I am angry with myself and ashamed of my own shortcomings. I didn't care for her the way that she would have for me.
When my grandfather died, Barbara made me soup. In fact, she would often bring me recipes she'd tried, and sometimes a sample. My two favorite soup recipes come from her, in fact. But more than soup, she taught me by example the comfort of a meal made for you at a time when you are just too stuck, to sad, too hurt (or even too filled with joy) to cook. I was proud to help organize a few months of meals for her family after she got sick the first time, and was glad to be able to help again when she got sick this fall. I am proud to have learned this from her, because it was such a deeply ingrained part of who she was, to support others in this way. Now, I make meals for others whenever I can, but I obviously prefer babies to death. Now, when I do it, I will make the conscious choice to do it in Barbara's memory.
But the most important thing that I learned from Barbara is how to be a good mother. She loved her children more than one could ever imagine having room in one's body and heart to love. She literally brimmed with love for them. But what she did the best as a mother was let her children be who they were, who they were born to be, who they wanted to be. Not to change them into someone else or force them to conform to some ideal. She did this for her many, many students as well, for the hundreds of children who were either her kids (in her class) or her kids (in her school), as they were all her children. Barbara believed that children were entitled to a childhood, not one filled with structured classes and playdates and learning to read and count by age 3, but one filled with the busyness of a toddler exploring on his own or a child lazily flipping through books, or a group of kids hanging out and exploring life on their own. She mothered us all, and was our favorite teacher.
I will miss her for the rest of my life, mostly every day, or whenever I watch parents and children or children and teachers interact. May her memory be a blessing to all who knew her.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Shiva (and not the Goddess)
For those of you following my family saga...
My aunt died last Monday. The funeral was Wednesday. There were about 500 people at her funeral, and I have never heard two more beautiful eulogies than given by my cousins, her daughter and son. In general, I loathe Eishet Chayil, but when the rabbi of her congregation read it aloud, I found resonance in each phrase, as it really echoed the choices she made in her life to count people, community and mitzvot above all else.
And then there was shiva. The teeming hordes. The bagels and lox. The teeming hordes. The "oh, I haven't seen you since your grandfather's funeral." The "I'm sorry"s over and over. And yet it seemed like a huge party, every day, from 11 in the morning until way into the evening after maariv, with food and drink and socializing. It was so hard, and yet so easy. My cousins and uncle had what they needed, constant distractions, structured reminiscences, and chances to say kaddish together. The house was filled with children--the four grandchildren and all of their friends, and my son and the extended cousins, and the whole place was filled with life.
I kept trying to stop myself from thinking how much my aunt would have enjoyed it. She would have loved to catch up with all of her cousins and my father's family, and pinch all of the babies' cheeks, and she would have loved how my cousin's house looked and how beautiful all the platters were. She would have marveled at the sheer numbers and wondered why they were all there--was it for her?? Unreal. My older cousin, a product of a Hebrew school and USY and a Schechter parent, lead davening for almost every mincha and maariv, and her mother would have been so proud. I wish she could have been there. Maybe she was.
Thank God I've never had to sit shiva myself. But now I know how structure is so absolutely necessary here, and how each person who came through that house fulfilled the mitzvah of distracting my family and somehow lessening their pain while enhancing the texture of their memories. Shiva is a miserable thing, no matter who dies. Whoever came up with it was a genius.
My aunt died last Monday. The funeral was Wednesday. There were about 500 people at her funeral, and I have never heard two more beautiful eulogies than given by my cousins, her daughter and son. In general, I loathe Eishet Chayil, but when the rabbi of her congregation read it aloud, I found resonance in each phrase, as it really echoed the choices she made in her life to count people, community and mitzvot above all else.
And then there was shiva. The teeming hordes. The bagels and lox. The teeming hordes. The "oh, I haven't seen you since your grandfather's funeral." The "I'm sorry"s over and over. And yet it seemed like a huge party, every day, from 11 in the morning until way into the evening after maariv, with food and drink and socializing. It was so hard, and yet so easy. My cousins and uncle had what they needed, constant distractions, structured reminiscences, and chances to say kaddish together. The house was filled with children--the four grandchildren and all of their friends, and my son and the extended cousins, and the whole place was filled with life.
I kept trying to stop myself from thinking how much my aunt would have enjoyed it. She would have loved to catch up with all of her cousins and my father's family, and pinch all of the babies' cheeks, and she would have loved how my cousin's house looked and how beautiful all the platters were. She would have marveled at the sheer numbers and wondered why they were all there--was it for her?? Unreal. My older cousin, a product of a Hebrew school and USY and a Schechter parent, lead davening for almost every mincha and maariv, and her mother would have been so proud. I wish she could have been there. Maybe she was.
Thank God I've never had to sit shiva myself. But now I know how structure is so absolutely necessary here, and how each person who came through that house fulfilled the mitzvah of distracting my family and somehow lessening their pain while enhancing the texture of their memories. Shiva is a miserable thing, no matter who dies. Whoever came up with it was a genius.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Time to Shop for Yarn
My aunt died this morning. It's too soon to know how everyone is doing. I do know that I was having breakfast with a colleague when my cousin and my dad called to tell me, and I burst into tears. I am, to say the least, sad.
The next few days will be heartbreaking. My aunt was a tremendously courageous woman who battled breast cancer, cared for her aging mother (till her death this past summer) and took care of everyone around her. Trained as a nurse, she nursed everyone around her and cared for them with compassion and love. I could continue to eulogize her but everyone else will, far more eloquently, so I'll hold back. But this was also a woman who was a wife--for more than 40 years--and a mother, a grandmother of 4 sad little children, an aunt, a friend. We will all miss her so much.
I wish that people would stop saying "She's in a better place now" or "At least her suffering has ended". It doesn't help. The better place is HERE. We wish she didn't have to suffer AT ALL.
I made a vow to make washcloths for new babies in honor of my aunt, just like she made for my son when he was born. They are the softest, most delicious things, meant to be heirlooms but yet not really heirloom quality. I cherish them. I will go out, after the funeral, to buy yarn and learn how to do it myself. That way, a little bit of her will always be with me.
Yehi zichra l'vracha.
The next few days will be heartbreaking. My aunt was a tremendously courageous woman who battled breast cancer, cared for her aging mother (till her death this past summer) and took care of everyone around her. Trained as a nurse, she nursed everyone around her and cared for them with compassion and love. I could continue to eulogize her but everyone else will, far more eloquently, so I'll hold back. But this was also a woman who was a wife--for more than 40 years--and a mother, a grandmother of 4 sad little children, an aunt, a friend. We will all miss her so much.
I wish that people would stop saying "She's in a better place now" or "At least her suffering has ended". It doesn't help. The better place is HERE. We wish she didn't have to suffer AT ALL.
I made a vow to make washcloths for new babies in honor of my aunt, just like she made for my son when he was born. They are the softest, most delicious things, meant to be heirlooms but yet not really heirloom quality. I cherish them. I will go out, after the funeral, to buy yarn and learn how to do it myself. That way, a little bit of her will always be with me.
Yehi zichra l'vracha.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Mourning, Before Death
I hesitate to continue in the vein of the previous post, but time demands certain responses. My aunt is dying of cancer. I read the story of Emily Arndt with such sadness because I am watching a similar but yet very different story unfold before my eyes.
My aunt--she's my father's brother's wife--is in the end stages of breast cancer. She's my only aunt. I was terrified of her as a child, and only learned that she was human when I was about 18 (when I discovered that it was possible for adults to be human). She had a double mastectomy 6.5 years ago and a year and a half ago, just before that 5 year mark, the cancer came back with a vengeance.
She has asked permission, in not so many words, from her family to let her die. She has two fabulous adult children, two amazing children by marriage, and four smart, adorable grandchildren who love her very much. Then there are her nieces and nephews, 6 in total and 4 extra spouses, who love her for being the aunt who always called, who always cared, who always sent cards and gave hugs and understood when our parents never did. And now, 6 grandnieces and nephews. A total of 4 brothers and sisters in law, and one healthy as a horse almost 90 year old mother in law who herself is a survivor of breast cancer.
I ache about this. It is not just that I will be losing a woman who I deeply respect, someone who has truly taught me what being there for someone really means, and someone who was so deeply connected to her Judaism that she literally lived and breathed the fulfillment of hachnassat orchim and bikkur cholim. I ache for children losing their mother long before the right time to lose a parent (which is obviously never, but old age helps to soothe a loss). I ache for grandchildren who will won't make any more memories of grandma and will miss the way she cuddled them on her lap (even the older one). I ache for my uncle, who hasn't been the same since the cancer reappeared and in spite of his tough outer skin, is experiencing a deeper pain than I pray anyone ever has to know.
My resolution is as follows. I will "be there" when I am needed. Whenever that is.
And I will learn to crochet washcloths.
When my son was born almost 3 years ago, my aunt and uncle showed up at my apartment with a trove of goodies, from Baby Einstein videos to board books and toys, all the products of having had 4 grandchildren and learned from experience. But in that trove of real treasure were two hand crocheted washcloths.
No other washcloths will compare. They are amazing for washing, they hold so much water and squeeze out so nicely and they are the loveliest babygift I may have received. They even hold enough to rinse the shampoo out of a little boy's hair. They are the kinds of things that become heirlooms. And when the time comes, I will learn to crochet those washcloths because that is the way I would like to keep my aunt's memory alive.
Now, mind you, I am not a handy girl. I don't bake and I don't do handiwork. I can build an Ikea bookshelf but nothing more complicated than that. However, this strikes me as a vivid way of actively honoring my aunt and helping others understand how special she a person she IS. And somehow, this work of learning to do this, will be a healing process, a chance to honor a truly great woman, and to pass her love to others in a way that would make her happy.
It is crass, beyond crass to mourn for someone before their death. But in a way, realizing the eventuality prepares us to mourn properly. Shiva is meant to lead us through the mourning period with structure, shloshim to keep it going a little longer, and then the entire year to stick with the idea of loss and make it a part of the fabric of your identity. Because I am not obligated to say kaddish, I will mourn for her in my own way, and make washcloths.
My aunt--she's my father's brother's wife--is in the end stages of breast cancer. She's my only aunt. I was terrified of her as a child, and only learned that she was human when I was about 18 (when I discovered that it was possible for adults to be human). She had a double mastectomy 6.5 years ago and a year and a half ago, just before that 5 year mark, the cancer came back with a vengeance.
She has asked permission, in not so many words, from her family to let her die. She has two fabulous adult children, two amazing children by marriage, and four smart, adorable grandchildren who love her very much. Then there are her nieces and nephews, 6 in total and 4 extra spouses, who love her for being the aunt who always called, who always cared, who always sent cards and gave hugs and understood when our parents never did. And now, 6 grandnieces and nephews. A total of 4 brothers and sisters in law, and one healthy as a horse almost 90 year old mother in law who herself is a survivor of breast cancer.
I ache about this. It is not just that I will be losing a woman who I deeply respect, someone who has truly taught me what being there for someone really means, and someone who was so deeply connected to her Judaism that she literally lived and breathed the fulfillment of hachnassat orchim and bikkur cholim. I ache for children losing their mother long before the right time to lose a parent (which is obviously never, but old age helps to soothe a loss). I ache for grandchildren who will won't make any more memories of grandma and will miss the way she cuddled them on her lap (even the older one). I ache for my uncle, who hasn't been the same since the cancer reappeared and in spite of his tough outer skin, is experiencing a deeper pain than I pray anyone ever has to know.
My resolution is as follows. I will "be there" when I am needed. Whenever that is.
And I will learn to crochet washcloths.
When my son was born almost 3 years ago, my aunt and uncle showed up at my apartment with a trove of goodies, from Baby Einstein videos to board books and toys, all the products of having had 4 grandchildren and learned from experience. But in that trove of real treasure were two hand crocheted washcloths.
No other washcloths will compare. They are amazing for washing, they hold so much water and squeeze out so nicely and they are the loveliest babygift I may have received. They even hold enough to rinse the shampoo out of a little boy's hair. They are the kinds of things that become heirlooms. And when the time comes, I will learn to crochet those washcloths because that is the way I would like to keep my aunt's memory alive.
Now, mind you, I am not a handy girl. I don't bake and I don't do handiwork. I can build an Ikea bookshelf but nothing more complicated than that. However, this strikes me as a vivid way of actively honoring my aunt and helping others understand how special she a person she IS. And somehow, this work of learning to do this, will be a healing process, a chance to honor a truly great woman, and to pass her love to others in a way that would make her happy.
It is crass, beyond crass to mourn for someone before their death. But in a way, realizing the eventuality prepares us to mourn properly. Shiva is meant to lead us through the mourning period with structure, shloshim to keep it going a little longer, and then the entire year to stick with the idea of loss and make it a part of the fabric of your identity. Because I am not obligated to say kaddish, I will mourn for her in my own way, and make washcloths.
The scholar of Christian-Jewish ethics you hadn’t yet heard of
Emily Arndt, the author of “Demanding our attention : the Hebrew Bible in Christian ethics : an illustrative analysis of the akedah” (the binding of Isaac), wrote this study after having given birth. With a newborn she finished her dissertation and won a competitive job. She was teaching at Georgetown University when she gave birth a second time, but she never came home from the hospital, and this weekend she passed away.
She and her husband were so committed to the inter-religious dialogue that is so lacking in our world today that he had put his promising literary career on hold (he’d published a book of poems and the poems from his second manuscript are published in the best literary journals) to help her finish her book about the Akedah and teach in the theology department. There she taught with great respect for Judaism and sensitivity.
Her husband, my friend (we are alumni from the same MFA program and colleagues now), took care of their 4-year-old daughter and intended to care for the newborn son and taught as an adjunct. I remember his excitement when he told me they were expecting again. We used to meet to read one another’s poetry during lunch.
Emily discovered she had cancer in the final trimester of her pregnancy. I suppose she had very little to gain if she were to begin treatment then, and so much to lose. Her 4-month old son is healthy and thriving.
Emily lived guided by the ethics she taught, and so did her family. If I may say so, she was a real Ayshes Chayil, a woman of valor. And it’s a great loss to Jews and Christians alike that her work has been halted by her death.
Should anyone wish to help her husband defray the enormous costs of treatment that insurance did not cover, here is where they can do so.
Emily Arndt Fund
c/o Linda Ferneyhough
Theology Department
Georgetown University
Box 571135
Washington, DC 20057-1135
She and her husband were so committed to the inter-religious dialogue that is so lacking in our world today that he had put his promising literary career on hold (he’d published a book of poems and the poems from his second manuscript are published in the best literary journals) to help her finish her book about the Akedah and teach in the theology department. There she taught with great respect for Judaism and sensitivity.
Her husband, my friend (we are alumni from the same MFA program and colleagues now), took care of their 4-year-old daughter and intended to care for the newborn son and taught as an adjunct. I remember his excitement when he told me they were expecting again. We used to meet to read one another’s poetry during lunch.
Emily discovered she had cancer in the final trimester of her pregnancy. I suppose she had very little to gain if she were to begin treatment then, and so much to lose. Her 4-month old son is healthy and thriving.
Emily lived guided by the ethics she taught, and so did her family. If I may say so, she was a real Ayshes Chayil, a woman of valor. And it’s a great loss to Jews and Christians alike that her work has been halted by her death.
Should anyone wish to help her husband defray the enormous costs of treatment that insurance did not cover, here is where they can do so.
Emily Arndt Fund
c/o Linda Ferneyhough
Theology Department
Georgetown University
Box 571135
Washington, DC 20057-1135
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