I haven’t actually said the grace after meals since becoming a mourner. Maybe a sign I should be eating more actual food and less cookies. Shabbat night is the first time. The family laughs hysterically over a story about a bad translation of this prayer. (Malkie, if you are reading this, you know the one).
I nearly break down when I ask God to bless “my father, my teacher, the master of this house” but not “my mother, my teacher, the mistress of this house”.
Sleeping arrangements have been adjusted. My sister, our dog and I share the double bed. The dog jumps up between us, lies down, rolls on her side, presses against me and grabs my sisters hand between both her paws. She falls asleep holding hands, neither of us want to move and risk disturbing her.
The poor thing’s schedule, home, mealtimes, sleeping arrangements, walks and play dates have all been upended, and she doesn’t even know why. But she knows we are sad, and is trying her best to help.
I can’t fall asleep, for reasons that have nothing to do with the large animal stopping me from rolling over. I haven’t sat for a regular meditation session since Wednesday. Maybe now is the time.
A month ago, when my mother was hospitalized the first time, I made up a new mantra, even thought I don’t normally use words in my meditations. “Accept” on the in-breath and “release” on the out-breath.
These words have had a number of meaning over the past month
I accept myself as I am and release resistance, viewpoints or beliefs that no longer serve me.
I accept what the world sends me and release whatever I don’t need.
I accept this situation and release my tears.
Today is quieter. Because of Shabbat the only visitors are from the moshav. And the moshav is pretty busy. An older woman passed away Shabbat morning, bringing the total number of bereaved families to four. The woman who died was my parents’ neighbor in their last house. For seven years she brought them food every weekend because my mother was sick.
Since my parents moved my father went to visit her ever Shabbat. Just dropped in for a few minutes for a cup of tea and a cookie. Even when my mother needed full time care by two people, I would come for Shabbat and be with my mother and her carer and my father would do his rounds of visiting the older people he checked up on.
We won’t be able to go to the funeral. After we get up from our shivah we will need to go visit before leaving the moshav and going back home.
Her grandson comes over in the afternoon to sit with our father. No one has words. At least she didn’t suffer, he says. At least our mother isn’t suffering any more, we say. Maybe all we can do is sit together. Maybe that can be enough for now.
We eat hot food off made by neighbors, off another neighbor’s hot plate. Thank God for our uncle, who made sure the food was hot, and set the table and served us. Thank you God for Miriam, who brought soup yesterday, heated it in our kitchen, served it out and put cups of soup in our hands.
My brother makes kiddush, he’s tired and confused and begins reciting the wrong one. We gently correct him and help him though it.
So many, many experiences in my life were characterized by my mother’s absence. Every kiddush in my childhood we set the table, sat, and waited half an hour in case today my mother would make it out of her bed. Then we ate without her, her chair standing empty. No one could sit in it, no matter how many guests we may have had.
Today she is missing less than usual, I say. Everyone agrees. We feel less guilty. She isn’t sitting alone in her room because she can’t bear the noise. She isn’t lying in bed because if she moves she will scream from the pain. She isn’t resenting everything we can do that she can’t, and hating herself for that resentment.
I can’t see through my tears.
Afternoon, family time, naps, or at least the pretense. My dog and my father’s dog have become best friends, which means it looks like they’re trying to kill each other. My brother’s dog wants to play too, but she is old and tired, she jumps a little and then whines and goes to lie down. My mother’s dog is aloof and distracted. She’s an old lady now. What is fourteen and a half in dog years?
More praying in the tent in our front yard. Friends are offended on my behalf that there is no attempt to include me and my sister in any way. But we are so relieved to have the house to ourselves for a bit that we can’t be bothered to care. More people feels like the last thing I need now. Then they leave and we are all alone again. Everything hurts.
Post Shabbat visitors begin to arrive. Our neighbors across the border send over a sympathy rocket. The air raid siren surprises most of our visitors. Turns out you can fit eleven people and three dog into my parents’ bomb shelter. No one made it in before the rocket fell of course, but A for effort. It’s my dog’s first bombing, I don’t think the noise bothered her, but eleven people running at her all at once upset her. We hold her tight and sooth her as she tries to escape and defend us from the invaders.
Everyone leaves eventually. Well after dark, when no one is one the streets, we venture out. For our own well-being, we are not supposed to be in the public realm, but the dogs still expect their walk.
So beautifully raw. You made me feel some of what you are feeling. (((hugs)))
Thank you, Lorrie. Many hugs back 🙂
I do. Beautiful post.
Thank you, Malkie hugs