Year two
Sept 3rd, 2007,
Do not tire
Do not cry
wrote Judah in one of his last notes to me. I laminated this and carry it in my purse, pulling it out when I need to be comforted. Two years a long time, and yet a blink. I emptied his storage locker, donated his furniture to a home for mentally challenged children, kept all his papers and many books, and cd's. I cried, and even at times laughed. Found water colors, sketches, snipets of poetry, hospital greens, law books, playboy magazine, photo magazines, rolls of Bounty, toothpaste, pots and pans. All the items of life. I used the saran wrap, brought the armoir home, sorted papers and felt his presence. I now have at least a dozen novels to read, and many medical books to donate. I will keep a few, as I will keep his jeans that were shreded at the knees, his Sackler sweat shirt, cameras, and force my memory cells to recall every aspect of his life.
I am trying to make a photo album of Judah and will publish it in a few months. If you have anything you want to be included please e mail it to me. Ivorytrust@aol.com.
The hole in my heart will not heal, but a protective shield of his love helps me get through the days.
His Memory is a Blessing.
May the old year with all its curses be gone, and the new one with all its blessings begin.
Martha
posted by The Whites @ 10:52 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
I just got back from Will Rogers Beach at PCH and Temescal Canyon. Every year my synagogue, Kehillat Israel, has its Selihot service there and every year there's always been some reason why I didn't make it to the service. This year I was drawn there. Maybe it's because I'm starting the Adult B'nai Mitzvah class this year and I figured I'd better get to work! Even at the end of a hectic day at the hair salon, shopping, and taking care of my new puppy, Dolly, I managed to get there. At the beginning of the service, Rabbi Lewart asked us to look up to the sky to find a star to focus on. As I looked up, I looked back towards PCH to the cliffside. I realized that I was looking at one of Judah's favorite spots -- a pathway with benches along a wooden rail where people go to enjoy the ocean view or the sunset. Judah loved that place. He took me there a few times. Once was for my birthday. I haven't been there since, but I'll always remember the peaceful look in Judah's eyes and the smile on his face, and it will always be Judah's place where he was content and happy. As the service continued, I cried quietly. Judah told me to move on with my life and I have and I will. But, just like everyone who knew him, I will always love him and sometimes it feels good to remember and to cry.
On the journey of grief I have come to believe the "hole" we feel is the place where our loved one lives. We want it open a bit to feel them, to hear them, to touch them, when we need to. Love is something that never dies, it lives in the many spaces, places, things and moments that remind us of someone we loved and lost. Hold the "hole" gently, it will fill with his essence and the never ending love between mother and son.
Love
Elissa
I went to a mass today that was dedicated to my Lebanese father in law, who suddenly passed away a month ago. The bishop said that we aren't supposed to mourn people who pass on, but celebrate their graduation to the afterlife. We were told to speak out loud names of people who had gone before us so that we could all remember them and let them know that we were thinking of them. This very old lady kept listing name after name after name, and other people said names aloud. My Arab said his father and grandparents' names. Then after it was quiet for awhile, I said, "My friend Judah." And as soon as I said it out loud the grief overflowed through my lacrimal ducts just as fresh as if it were two years ago.
Not long ago I had a dream where there was some kind of Jewish tradition, where when someone dies, they get to come back for a day so we can say one more goodbye to them in person on a little boat. So Judah and I and maybe seven other people went out to sea on this little boat. It was really sunny, and Benji was singing a Hebrew song like the ones for Shabbas, that was part of this ritual. And then we had to say goodbye to Judah before he was supposed to jump into the ocean and never come back. I was bawling and asking if he would please not jump. He looked really sad for me, you know that look he gets when he's talking about a patient who has a poor prognosis, and he said, "I'm sorry Chinsky, it's a Jewish tradition." And then he jumped into the water and disappeared, and I woke up and my pillow was all wet and my face hurt from being scrunched up, and it took me awhile to realize it was a dream. My Arab woke up because I was blowing my nose and sniffling a lot, and we talked about it for a long time till I fell asleep again. Losing people close to you is the most horrible experience in the world. Judah was the first close person I've ever lost. I'm fairly certain there is no relief for this kind of loss, no matter how much time passes.
Last week we had a memorial service for our cadavers. Different people came up to represent their religious traditions, and this kid named Adam was representing the Jewish faith. He stood at the podium and held up his hand and slowly waved it from one side of the classroom to the other, and when his hand came to our section we were supposed to say the name of our cadaver or our table number to remember them. I don't really have a reason to tell you this, except that it was an emotional moment for me, and it's because of Judah that I can empathize with people who have lost loved ones and mourn with them. Someone said that the people who donated their bodies to us are the most dedicated teachers because even in death, they are teaching us to be better students and physicians. The girl sitting next to me gave a speech. I thought it was very moving, so I asked her to send it to me:
I found out earlier this month that parts of my grandparents may have been sold by the funeral director we entrusted them to. It made me think about Ernie.
At Table 7, members of the dissection team refer to our cadaver as "Ernie." It was a name I had suggested, based on a joke I had read in an SAT prep book years ago. Chances are, Ernie wasn't really Ernie in real life. He could have been Charlie or Jim or Samuel, or any of a million other names. I won't even begin to guess what his last name was.
Still, giving Ernie a name was a way of giving him back some degree of personhood. It gave him, in death, a way to retain what he had before, even as we chipped away with clumsy hands what once made him recognizable to family and friends. It gave him personhood as we saw what family and friends probably never saw: an aortic aneurysm, blackened and hardened lungs, a hypertrophied bladder. We would comment on how Ernie was a good body, on how he had been good to us some days by having excellent structures, like a cisterna chyli.
The truth is, Ernie had been good to us just by being there, excellent structures or not. He, or someone near him, had chosen that his final rest would be delayed for a few months while laughing, joking first year medical students learned from him.
In learning about my grandparents' possible desecration, I realized that it was a great trust we were given in being given those bodies. Extra care was taken to respect those bodies. It is something I can no longer take lightly. I'm sure none of us will forget our first cut, or the first time we looked into the face of our cadaver. I'm sure further that none of us will leave anatomy without having learned a personal lesson. --Alexys Sweeney
I just wanted to share that.
Love,
Amy
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