Accidental remembering

As I walked out of the treatment center today after getting my Xgeva, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, an older man in a chemo chair. He looked so much like my dad z"l at around age 65 that I actually did a double take. Sure enough, same style eyeglasses, same shape face, same receding hairline. This man was covered up to his chin with a blanket, so I can't guess on other resemblances.

I felt I could hardly stop and interrupt him to say, "Wow, you remind me of my father." But I mentioned the incident at my support group later that afternoon  and was surprised that I teared up.

My dad's been gone for a few years and most of my grief has come and gone. Still, unexpectedly seeing what might have been his face triggered more sorrow than I expected.

May your memory be for a blessing to all who knew you, Daddy.

Yet another death from cancer

A friend from my support group died this weekend. D, a very spiritual person, was a regular at this group for far longer than I. His cancer progressed quickly and his doctor recently told me there were no more treatment options that were likely to be effective. D decided to stop treatment and enjoy his life for as long as he could; the doctors hoped through the end of the year

Sadly, the cancer seemed to progress faster than anyone expected. D began to fail a little more than a week ago and started hospice at that time. He came to group on the 17th looking pale but still giving us suggestions on where to take a walk to enjoy the spring weather. D was looking forward to giving a talk on spirituality last week when we heard that he was failing and slipping in and out of consciousness. I heard this morning that he had died. I imagine that his grown children were able to make it back to Seattle in time for the funeral today, but don't know if they each had a chance to say goodbye. Rik and I will try to make it to a shiva minyan this week (if my health permits after tomorrow's planned fourth dose of Gemzar).

Zichrono l'vracha, may his memory be for a blessing to all who knew him.

Cancer sucks.

Veteran's Day

This is by way of a love note to my father, who served in the Army Corps of Engineers during World War II, when he was just 19 years old. 

And I tip my hat to my Canadian-born husband and all Canadians who remember their country's losses from WWI  every year by wearing red poppy pins in their lapels.

In Flanders Fields 
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


McCrae's "In Flanders Fields" remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915. Here is the story of the making of that poem:

Although he had been a doctor for years and had served in the South African War, it was impossible to get used to the suffering, the screams, and the blood here, and Major John McCrae had seen and heard enough in his dressing station to last him a lifetime.

As a surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Major McCrae, who had joined the McGill faculty in 1900 after graduating from the University of Toronto, had spent seventeen days treating injured men -- Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans -- in the Ypres salient.

It had been an ordeal that he had hardly thought possible. McCrae later wrote of it:

"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."

One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student, Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May 1915. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae's dressing station, and McCrae had performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.

The next day, sitting on the back of an ambulance parked near the dressing station beside the Canal de l'Yser, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry.

In the nearby cemetery, McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines of verse in a notebook.

A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae. The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the sergeant-major stood there quietly. "His face was very tired but calm as we wrote," Allinson recalled. "He looked around from time to time, his eyes straying to Helmer's grave."

When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and, without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO. Allinson was moved by what he read:

"The poem was exactly an exact description of the scene in front of us both. He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description of the scene."

In fact, it was very nearly not published. Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to newspapers in England. The Spectator, in London, rejected it, but Punch published it on 8 December 1915.

On recent deaths

In the past week I have attended two funerals and two shiva minyanim for three different people. One was a man who died at age 89 after escaping Nazi Germany in his late teens, arriving penniless in Seattle, rebuilding his life here, and becoming a leader in our community. The second was a Russian woman, age 79, whose four daughters, and eventually she and her husband, fled the USSR in the 90s for Israel and Seattle. The third death was a woman, age 68, whose ovarian cancer returned earlier this year.

The first two, that's the way it's supposed to be. You live a long, fruitful life; have the opportunity to tell the ones you love how much they love you and hear it from them in return; and move on to the stage of being. The third, who died from cancer -- that's NOT the way it's supposed to be.

What struck me most was how three different people all said the same thing about two of these deaths: how they left things unsaid and wished that they had written that card, made that phone call, before it was too late. One woman said as much in a eulogy she gave.

I know most people don't want to acknowledge that death is a part of life, that we should always maintain hope. But too many of us let our fears get in the way of telling people how much they mean to us. The woman who died of cancer? I believe she would have been overjoyed to get those cards and notes from the people who couldn't bring themselves to write. The young man who wanted to record his grandmother's stories admitted that he let small, unimportant things eat up his time.

Why can't we all tell those we love what they mean to us, as frequently as possible? There is no dress rehearsal for life, and when we let our fears or our busy-ness get in the way, we miss out on the authentic experience of loving and being loved. Isn't this what life is all about?

Mourning

I just woke up suddenly to what I thoughts were the sounds of dog toenails, clickety-clack on the wood floor. I checked and Bobka was on the bed, asleep at my feet, Rik at my side. It might have been Pumpkin’s spirit roaming through the house.

Someday we will be together again, and Pumpkin will greet me over the rainbow bridge, his little tail wagging frantically with joy, and I will let him jump on me and lick my face and rub that special spot under his ears. Kitzel will come along, fluffy and furry, and she will sit on my shoulder and let me stroke her. Then Dunky, faithful friend of my youth, will arrive and the dogs will play together joyously in the tall green grass as Kitzel hunts nearby.

Oh my poor dear companions, who suffered so in their last days. I didn’t hold up my end of our bargain very well. You gave me unconditional love and I could neither prevent your pain nor take it away quickly enough.

I cried hot tears and sobbed in the dark, then had to get up to write this. It must be the pain and sorrow I wasn’t able to express from the bimah when speaking, singing to lead the congregation during yizkor, or praying on this Yom Kippur, come out in a dream. My beloved father, who is gone these two years. My dear childhood friend Charisse, dead for so many years it’s been longer than the time we knew each other. The friends I’ve lost to cancer, including the one I heard about before going to bed, five months after her death.

The last flames of the yahrzeit candle flickered out as I wrote this. It’s time to stop crying and try to sleep again. Peace to all of you, who I loved so. Although I mourn you all, you are still present in my heart.

Missing Josh

Because my scheduled ultrasound was cancelled early yesterday morning (even medical personnel sometimes get sick and can't come to work), I had enough energy to attend Josh's funeral. I think more than 500 people attended. Rabbi Borodin did a superb job of coordinating the many eulogies and speaking herself of the tragedy of Josh's death.

Who gave eulogies? Kim's family rabbi from Tacoma. Josh's brother and sister. A congregant who was his summer camp counselor and teacher. A childhood friend, a college friend, and a friend he and Kim met after moving back to Seattle. His wife, Kim. Rabbi Borodin. Another Beth Shalom member chanted El Maleh Rachamim (God full of compassion) and led us all in singing Psalm 23.

I was struck by how every speaker identified Josh as a man who always engaged with people. Josh could interact directly and immediately on topics large and small. Certainly in our conversations over the past few years, he could crack a joke, talk about living with metastatic cancer and preparing for his own death.

Being a writer, it was no surprise to me that Josh chose to write his own obituary. (I have done the same.) His love of family and friends took precedence over everything else in his life. Josh constantly reminded me to live each day to the fullest, no matter how tough the day might be. And from him and the too many other friends I have lost to cancer, I have learned, again, how to be fully present in life, even in the face of death.

Zichrono l'vracha, may his memory be a blessing to all who knew him.

More Pumpkin memories

Pumpkin came to us in 2003.

He had been abandoned at a "kill" shelter and was rescued originally by a woman specializing in cocker spaniel rescue. (A "kill" shelter is one where, if no one claims the abandoned animal after a certain number of days, it is euthanized.) This wonderful woman took him home, had him checked out by a vet who estimated his age at seven and neutered him. She named the dog Pumpkin, groomed and socialized him and then advertised on Petfinder.com for a "forever" home. We passed her inspection and Pumpkin arrived during Passover, dressed in a blue bow and looking like the perfect dog.

My parents happened to be in town for a visit and friends with a dog who had a good grasp of doggy temperament came over to check out Pumpkin. Arturo Tosca-bow-wow gave Pumpkin his approval and we took to one another immediately.

We three went to obedience training and Pumpkin learned to walk nicely on a leash without pulling, sit, stay, down and come when called. He was very motivated by dog cookies to excel!

That summer, when we moved into the current house, Pumpkin loved exploring the yard and the neighborhood. The fence wasn't complete and he would frequently roam at night. We would have to go after him with a flashlight and his leash to make sure he wasn't hit by a car. We usually found him a few doors down the block, eating the cat food left out by our neighbors. We quickly finished fencing the yard completely.


We started going to the beach and Pumpkin loved to romp in the sand, chase birds and even swim a little in the ocean (as long as I went in with him). On one trip with friends, both dogs got caught up in the mighty Moclips river current and were in danger of being washed out to sea before we could leash them and pull them to safety.

After Pumpkin came into our lives, three sets of friends also got dogs. Pumpkin was a good example of how a loving, friendly dog can become part of your family.

For the first five years he was with us, I was still limited in mobility and Pumpkin worked as my service dog. He could go to a cafe or restaurant, to the movies, to the doctor (but not the dentist). Dr. Judy, Arturo's person, used to say that Pumpkin had the uncanny ability to become a piece of furniture and not call attention to himself. Once I brought him to a large benefit luncheon of more than 1000 people. He went quietly into a down under the table, which had a floor-length cloth. I had neglected to warn our server that there was a dog present, and he unknowingly stepped on Pumpkin's protruding foot. The dog yelped, the waiter startled, and the whole banquet room full of people looked around for what caused the noise. I don't know who was more mortified, the waiter or me.

After the field near our house was turned into a housing development, we went to the nearby off-leash park. Pumpkin would romp around, be the dog police and bark at other dogs if he thought they weren't playing nicely. He particularly loved running between Rik and I, back and forth, over and over again. He refused to chase a ball more than once or twice in a row and then he was done playing. After one play session, I went past a dog show and on the fly, Pumpkin was able to qualify for the AKC's Canine Good Citizen award. He wore the patch proudly on his little doggy service vest.

More recently Pumpkin lost his hearing, although he always knew when I moved around the house and would follow me from room to room faithfully. In this respect he was truly a velcro dog. He had separation anxiety issues and would drool and pant if he was left alone in the house. It didn't matter if it was five minutes, five hours or five days, Pumpkin hated being alone. I think this was due to being abandoned and it is common among rescued shelter dogs.

In some respects, Pumpkin was the child that infertility, cancer, and failed adoption attempts prevented us from having. If we appear to mourn his loss more than some would expect, now you know the reason. As much as we saved him, he saved us.

Several of our friends who were here on Sunday to celebrate Rik's birthday sent beautiful messages to us yesterday:

Pumpkin played a very special place in my life and in the life of my family. I am speechless and at the same time I have so much to say. I saw so many shades of love through all those that loved and enjoyed Pumpkin. His lovable doginess started a movement with our dog and changed our family life!

Pumpkin was very lucky to have you during the second half of his life. You showed him consistency and love and care - you went to all lengths to give him a safe and comfortable life, and he brought a lot to your lives. I will miss his little wagging tail.

You were so good for Pumperdoodle and he was so good for you. Our son's love of Pumpkin was one reason we got a dog ourselves.

What I am sure of is that Pumpkin is thanking you even now for making a difficult but wise quality of life decision.

Pumpkin had a place in all of our hearts. We share your loss.

Remembering Pumpkin

We had to euthanize Pumpkin around 6 PM.

It turns out that for a couple of weeks he had been walking around on a pathologically fractured leg (sound familiar?). He saw the vet last week but did not have an xray taken, was given anti-inflammatories. Yesterday he came down hard on that bad leg, yelped in pain, and today's xrays revealed cancer and the fracture.

The vet suspected the cancer had already metastasized and that even with surgery and chemotherapy, or an amputation, Pumpkin would only have about six months. The vet could not manage his pain other than with intravenous opiates which we could not administer at home. A fentanyl patch would have taken 12-18 hours to be effective with no way to make him comfortable at home in the meantime. So rather than have P spend his last night in distress at the clinic, in order for us to have one more day with him, we made the right decision, which all pet owners have to face at some time or another, to take care of his pain in the only way left.

The vet was extraordinarily sympathetic. He brought Pumpkin out to us for a last cuddle and P was very stressed, even with morphine to ease his pain. The vet administered an overdose of anesthesia and P relaxed and was dead within moments.

Yesterday Pumpkin was running around the yard, sniffing out his turf, and willing to sit on everyone's lap even after he was hurt. This has been a really tough birthday for Rik.

We are both very sad. Pumpkin was a very good dog. He was about 15 and we were lucky to have him for eight years.

Remembering Dad

Today is the second yahrzeit for my father, Sheldon Charles Cohen, zichrono l'vracha, may his name be a blessing.

In his memory, last night I lit a 24-hour yahrzeit candle and this morning we went to morning minyan. Since it was a Monday, in addition to the regular short service, we read from the Torah. And as the daughter of a Kohen, I was honored with the first aliyah. (Miracle of miracles, there were four Kohanim AND a Levi present!) At the end of the Torah service, mourners have an opportunity to remember their loved ones in the prayer El Maleh Rachamim (God full of compassion). Although my still-weakened left arm prevented me from holding the Torah, I was able to chant the prayer.

Our shul also gives mourners the chance to say a few words. Here's what I said about my dad:

My father enlisted in the US Army in 1945, at the tail end of World War II, just before he turned 18. Given that his yahrzeit fell on Memorial Day this year, I think he'd want me to tell you a little bit about his service to our country.

For my dad, the war was an opportunity for a very young man to see the world. Serving in the Army Corps of Engineers as a truck driver, he once ran out of gas somewhere in France. Having learned a little bit of French, he hiked back to the closest village, where he made a telephone call. He said to the operator, in his Bronx-accented French, “Le militaire American.” The operator didn’t understand his accent, so he repeated “Le militaire American.” Eventually they connected him and the Army came by with more gas.

Because my dad loved to feed people, after the brief service, Rik and I offered everyone a nosh of bagels and cream cheese, orange juice, and a special treat my father loved -- key lime tarts.

On condolences

I read this wonderful article, From Kind Words, Lessons on Condolences, in the New York Times -- how to express yourself, what to say, what not to say. It's eloquently written by a woman who recently lost her husband. The author, Jane Brody, has real insight into how to express oneself to a grieving friend and offers examples of what others wrote to her after her loss.

Remembering Charisse

I always think of my dear friend, Rabbi Charisse Kranes z"l, on the eve of Shavu'ot. I remember that evening in 1989 too clearly. My roommate and I had just finished a delicious dinner when the phone rang. It was a friend of Charisse's from California, calling to say that she had died that afternoon. (Of course, it was three hours later back east due to the time zone difference.)

Charisse had been diagnosed with cancer four years earlier. Despite her advanced cancer, she continued to live life to the fullest. She started her first job as a congregational rabbi and was the first female rabbi on a pulpit here in Seattle. She married her grad school sweetie and they moved to California. When she could no longer work full time, she led services for the high holidays at various locations and later took on a part-time position.

We grew up together in the Zionist youth movement Young Judaea. In high school Charisse flirted off and on with increased religious observance. She used to bring a plastic toy Jeep to regional YJ conventions. During one particular weekend, she took the wheels off the Jeep so that we couldn't "drive" it and thus violate Shabbat while we played with it on Saturday afternoon.

Zichrona livracha: may her memory be a blessing.

another death to mets

i am sad to report that my friend w died last night of metastatic breast cancer. she was 35 years old. about four months ago, w and her husband became first-time parents to a newborn infant via surrogate. zichrona l'vracha, may w's memory be a blessing to all who knew her.

w and i met at a young survivors retreat in las vegas a few years ago. we had another opportunity to meet in seattle more recently and bonded via email and blogging. w was vivacious, smart, funny, a committed teacher and a giving, loving friend, daughter, sister, wife and mother.

her death hits especially hard today. as i look to monday's chemo, i can't help but face my own mortality. again.

yizkor again

several times a year jews remember our beloved family and friends who have died. we light the 24 hour yizkor candle at yom kippur, sukkot, pesach and shavu'ot.

a few weeks ago i was asked to lead the short yizkor service on the last day of pesach. i was honored, having only done this once before, last fall for yom kippur, and hadn't felt i did such a good job then (plus was overwhelmed by so many people in the congregation).

i practiced diligently but after last week's fall wasn't sure i could do it. thankfully my good friend s gave me a ride to synagogue today. i arrived 30 seconds before yizkor was supposed to start: services were moving faster than the rabbi anticipated.

i felt more confident this time. no doubt having fewer people present helped as well. i was able to slow down, concentrate on each note and really be in the moment, so much so that i was caught up in the emotion of those present and my own memories of my father, zichrono l'vracha, may his memory be a blessing.

yizkor can be very powerful. where else do you sit in a roomful of people who are crying, blowing their noses and wiping their eyes while they remember their dead?

i was moved to be able to move others so and help provide a relief for our collective grief.

Bittersweet Father's Day

Not only is today Father's Day, it's also the civil anniversary (not the Jewish anniversary) of the day my dad died. One year ago I had been back east for a visit when my dad appeared to rally again, so I went home. Only a few days later the phone rang at midnight. It was my sister, calling to say that they had just heard from the nursing facility that our dad had died.

Mom is here for a visit and told me she chose this weekend specifically so we could share Father's Day and this anniversary together. Given that she spends most holidays with my sister and her family, because they live only two towns apart, it was a great idea.

We've had a lovely visit, catching up with each other, watching old home movies, playing cards and Scrabble and filling her in on our bathroom remodel. Mom and I spent hours on Friday going to bathroom showrooms and checking out sinks, shower heads, etc. We even made the first purchase -- I bought a toilet!

Today, Father's Day, will be a bit more low key only in that we don't have specific plans. We'll go check out the new farmers' market near my house (if the rain holds off), run an errand, maybe get an ice cream cone. And of course we'll reminisce about my dad.

Mom says that what she misses the most is having Dad around to confirm that she remembers a certain event correctly. "Shel, what year was it that we....?" Mom is the last sibling (her brother died many years ago), she's in touch with friends from high school and beyond, but she and Dad went back to her sweet 16 party. They shared a lifetime of common history and I'm not surprised that she misses being able to ask him a question.

Onion cookies and memories

Beginning tonight and lasting until sunset tomorrow is the first yahrzeit for my father. In his memory I will light a candle tonight, go to shul in the morning, recite El Maleh Rachamim (God full of compassion), and share a memory or two with the morning minyan.


And of course I will bring the onion cookies. A recipe my father persuaded his mother to share, these savory biscuits are a staple every year when we break the fast after Yom Kippur. Today I made a small batch to share. Spread with cream cheese or butter, with a cup of coffee or some orange juice, they are a taste of heaven and the perfect way to remember my dad, who loved to cook and bake his special dishes.

Time to remember

Next week marks the first yahrzeit, the anniversary of my father's death last June. Although he died on June 21, 2008 (a week short of his 81st birthday) the Jewish calendar counts 28-day lunar months, so his yahrzeit will always be on 18 Sivan, which this year falls next Tuesday eve and Wednesday, June 9-10.

In our synagogue, we read the names of those who have a yahrzeit in the coming week on the Shabbat before the anniversary. My dad's name will be read today. I asked permission to lead Shabbat services again since my year of mourning has ended. Our rabbi said it was a marvelous idea to remember my dad by taking up my leadership role as a shlicha tzibur again, one who leads the community in prayer. (There is a custom that one doesn't lead Shabbat services while mourning a parent, if others are able to do so. One thing about Beth Shalom, we have plenty of trained volunteers!)

Yesterday I reviewed the musaf service to be sure I was still pronouncing all the Hebrew correctly, to decide which tunes I wanted to use, and to imagine myself standing up in front of the congregation and singing instead of sitting in my usual place. Rik will join me today.

I'm looking forward to rejoining the ranks of Shabbat shlichei tzibur and to remembering my dad in a way that made him proud.

Rabbi Charisse Kranes - may her memory be a blessing

Today is the 20th anniversary of my dear friend Charisse's death. She died erev Shavu'ot 5749 (1989).

Charisse and I knew each other from when I was 12 and she was 14. We grew up in Young Judaea together, attending Cincinnati YJ club meetings, Central States regional conventions and activities, and Camp Tel Yehudah in Barryville NY. I followed in her footsteps and didn't attend the Young Judaea Year Course in Israel but instead went to the Machon lemadrichei chutz la'aretz (The Institute for Youth Leaders from Abroad).

We sang, we talked, we ran around and had fun. I loved brushing her long, thick brown hair. She carried a toy Jeep at conventions and took the wheels off during Shabbat so it couldn't go for a ride. It didn't matter that I was two years younger or she was two years older. And when we had finished college and Charisse was in rabbinic school, she would come to visit me in Columbus OH on her way to her part-time student pulpit in northern Ohio.

One summer Charisse had a student congregation in Traverse City MI. I drove up to Michigan's lower peninsula and found my way to Traverse City, home of local cherries. Charisse was staying in a tiny apartment located in the old, small synagogue. We had a most wonderful time together.

While writing her rabbinic thesis Charisse began to complain of stomach pain. Everyone thought it was due to the stress of graduating from rabbinic school and looking for a job. She found a position as assistant rabbi at Temple de Hirsch Sinai here in Seattle. (I was still living in Columbus.)

Only a few weeks after arriving in Seattle, Charisse was diagnosed with cervical cancer. The stomach pains turned out to be a tumor the size of a grapefruit. My great shame in life is that when she asked me to come to Seattle to be with her during a round of chemotherapy, I begged off, saying I couldn't afford it and couldn't take the time off from work. I only wish I had had the sensitivity to really hear her fear and sadness and been able to respond to them. But Charisse didn't hold a grudge.


Throughout the four years Charisse battled this cancer, she lived life to the fullest. She married her graduate school sweetie, Winston Pickett, while still in cancer treatment and was a beautiful bride. (We went to lunch the day before the wedding and in the ladies' room at the restaurant, she said, "I simply must scratch my head," pulled off her wig and scratched vigorously.) Her two wigs each had a name for when Charisse felt like being someone else. Charisse never lost her sense of humor about it all.

Some time later, she was living in California but had a high holiday pulpit in Hawaii. She called me one afternoon when I was preparing to lead services at Hillel, saying she couldn't remember how to sing Kol Nidre and would I sing it into the phone for her? Ironically, Charisse was the one who taught me to chant for the high holidays. I still have the recording she made for me of all her favorite nusach and tunes. If I ever figure out how to upload music to this blog I will share it.

Charisse was gifted with a most extraordinary voice. She was an inspiration for Bonia Shur, music director at Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, and recorded for him. Some of my fondest memories are of just singing together at a Young Judaea meeting or at camp.

It's been twenty years since Charisse died, and when I said kaddish this morning for her yahrzeit, tears came so strongly to my eyes that I could barely read the words. I miss her still and wish we could have shared these past twenty years together -- my move to Seattle, marriage to Rik, frustration at infertility and cancer diagnoses.

Charisse and I were supposed to grow old together, still laughing and singing into our 80s. Now I have no life expectancy, having outlived all the statistics for women with metastatic breast cancer, and I don't know how many more birthdays I will celebrate. No matter how many or how few, they will be without Charisse -- and that's something I will never get used to.


Zichrona l'vracha -- may her memory be a blessing.

Shabbat again

I was able to celebrate Shabbat again after weeks of practically no Jewish content in my life. Shabbat for us has always been about spending time with friends and family. We may go out to "play" sometimes (i.e. see a movie or a theatrical performance) but we have only missed spending Shabbat dinner with each other on a handful of occasions in the 14 years we have been married.

Because I am still not 100% on my feet, Rik offered to take me to shul for Shabbat morning services. I wanted to atttend only briefly, because the kiddush (light lunch) after services is such a lovely social moment. So we went for what one rabbi calls "kaddish and kiddush" -- showing up at the end of services, just in time to socialize.

We arrived in time to hear the second half of the guest speaker's talk on Israel - very powerful. Then we slipped into my usual spot and tried not to make too much of a fuss being greeted by others. I was able to sing full out, I stood for portions of the musaf service but not the whole thing, and I was able to say the final kaddish for my father.

It meant so much to me to be able to remember my dad in the context of my community. I had missed the end of the eleven months of saying kaddish for a parent while in the hospital, and knowing that I could mark the moment with my synagogue community was fulfilling. I started to cry a bit and realized that I had to focus on saying the words of the kaddish as well as remembering Dad.

Then after serivces Rik escorted me to a table and brought me a plate of egg salad, part of a bagel nd a small brownie, all I could eat. People came up to visit with me for at least an hour. All in all, going to shul was a tonic for my soul!

In the afternoon I visited with K while Rik took the first nap of the spring/summer in his hammock. Then I took a snooze, we ate some leftovers for dinner and went to the grocery store for a few things. What an exciting Saturday night! I was thrilled to be able to go out twice in one day.