a funeral and a move
Today the movers came and took away everything I own. Except for an extra blue bra and the dress I got from H&M for $5 that I sleep in sometimes. Tomorrow they are putting all of the stuff in the place that will be my new home. Which means we have to pay a lot more money, because the rates are going up tomorrow because it’s the first of the month. And they have to keep everything in the truck overnight. And we needed all these extra boxes because we are bad at packing.
Two days ago, I was at a funeral. A member of my congregation, a guy who had been a president of the synagogue, finally died. It was finally because he had ALS for eleven years.
The first time I ever saw him, he was standing behind a podium on the bima, reading prayers during Rosh Hashanah. He had a commanding voice. I had my journal with me, because I was twelve and expected to be really bored (the high holidays have very long services), and I was sketching pictures of the interesting characters in the room. I drew him.
A few years later, he was walking with a cane, even though he was much, much too young to. My parents’ age.
And then it was a wheel chair.
And then his breath was rasping through the ventilator.
A nurse came with him to services, adjusting him constantly, fixing the tubes.
But he was still singing along with me. I was leading services by then. Scared out of my mind at first, clinging to the lip of the podium. I was standing where he had stood, singing in Hebrew, sure I would forget the melody at any moment. And he was looking up at me, smiling a little.
He was always in the front, because of his complicated chair. The beep of the ventilator punctuated my chanting. At first, it startled me. Then it became soothing. I started listening for it.
He was dying for so long, it started to feel like he wouldn’t die. He was still so sure of himself. I would lean over the chair, after a long service, and tell him what I had really been thinking. And he would reassure me. He reassured a lot of people, from that chair, with the tubes in his nose, and a voice that came so breathy it was like a rush of wind. I was a little afraid, approaching him, because he looked so sick. Sickness is scary. I was afraid I’d look like I felt sorry for him. I was afraid I wouldn’t understand what he was saying.
But he’d patiently say it again.
He wrote this blog. And now he’s dead. So, in the middle of moving, I was suddenly on the bima, singing at his funeral. Suddenly singing a version of a prayer I’d never sung before, which I’d learned ten minutes beforehand, somehow. I was looking out at hundreds of people, with no time to get nervous. So many people packed into the synagogue that it was standing room only. Like a sold-out concert. And I was crying so much that I wasn’t sure what would happen when I opened my mouth to sing.
And then I was standing there, holding onto the podium, the book with the Hebrew words in front of me. I took a breath. I took another breath. And then there was a beep.
A little beep. Someone’s phone– I don’t know. It sounded just like his machines.
I sang.
Now I’m back in the city, at my friend’s apartment, waiting for tomorrow morning, when I’ll have a new home, full of stuff that desperately needs to be unpacked. I took a photo of myself in the old, empty space that used to have my furniture everywhere. But the chord that plugs my camera into my computer is buried in a box somewhere.
And there’s a chance I won’t have a working internet connection again until Friday. Friday! I’ll see what I can do.
After the funeral, I felt like I couldn’t get my head on straight. I felt stunned. How does anyone deal with anything? How does anyone deal with ending?
Which made me think of this woman I met once in a gift shop at a tiny hotel in a remote part of Costa Rica, who had just been broken up with by her longtime boyfriend. She was forty-two, and her parents were both dead, and she decided to start again. There she was, watching the ocean slip up and back along the beach, learning how to speak Spanish. I couldn’t believe her courage.
I couldn’t believe the courage of this family, who cared for a man dying of ALS for eleven years. And the courage of the man himself.
But maybe I should start believing.
* * *
Unroast: Today I love the way I look in the same dress two days in a row.
P.S. If you don’t hear from me for a few days, don’t think I’m not trying!
Kate on July 31st 2011 in Uncategorized
Andrew responded on 31 Jul 2011 at 10:20 pm #
That’s such a nice tribute to Joe. He was one of the first people we met at the synagogue, 14 years ago. I don’t think I ever spoke to him other than that day, but it was difficult to watch his condition deteriorate over the years, even from a distance. ALS is brutal.
bethany actually responded on 01 Aug 2011 at 1:53 am #
I’m so sorry for your loss of your friend.
I have a friend who calls little coincidences like that phone beeping just when you needed it “Godwinks.” I like that idea, that God or the universe is smiling at you a little just when you need it.
Good luck with the move!
Ashley responded on 01 Aug 2011 at 8:59 am #
I checked out the blog. It’s very emotional to read. That must be a lot of adjustments for you to go through a loss and a move at the same time.
L responded on 01 Aug 2011 at 1:17 pm #
The way you described everything in this post is truly poignant, Kate.
As to your (probably rhetorical, but i’ll give my two pennies worth) question of how people deal with things ending, i think you’ve answered it yourself, things end, like your friend dying, but the also carry on: you’re still moving house, with amazing new opportunities unfolding ahead of you, and everyone who’s still alive has still got the opportunities, so that’s how they deal.
It’s terrible when someone dies any time really, but when they die young, it’s particularly brutal, and usually really affects the people who remain, but most people continue living because they know the deceased would wish that, and because everything carried on happening regardless, and that’s how it should be.
@bethany actually i think that’s a lovely expression 🙂
x
~moe~ responded on 01 Aug 2011 at 8:04 pm #
A beautiful tribute to Joe. Thank you for sharing that intimate moment.
Brooke responded on 01 Aug 2011 at 8:04 pm #
How timely for me…I just attended a funeral and viewing of my father-in-law who was also dying for a very long time. Some people were very sad that he was gone. I was glad he was no longer suffering. I guess we all deal in different ways.
Taryn @ thefitflosser responded on 02 Aug 2011 at 12:03 pm #
So sorry to hear about your loss.
Everybody grieves differently and sometimes we just have to bury ourselves in emotion to feel better.
Fritzy responded on 02 Aug 2011 at 2:00 pm #
What a lovely tribute to a lovely man. ( I also checked out his blog.) One of the ways we deal with endings, is by sharing how we hurt. You did that beautifully.
Regarding bethany’s expression:’God winks’—my definition of coincidence has been ‘God acting anonymously.’ Now I have a shorter version.
I’m hoping your move flows easily and naturally and you are soon reconnected with your computer.
Val responded on 03 Aug 2011 at 1:18 am #
Just love, Val
Dee responded on 03 Aug 2011 at 9:24 am #
touching post kate. i read his blog too. it sounds like he was an amazing man. i don’t know that i could be so courageous. we just buried my mother-in-law a week ago. it feels like the end of chapter that started four years ago when my father-in-law died and was punctuated by the death of my nephew, their first grandchild last year. your post is one of the things that bring me back to tears but i’m glad i read it anyway because it makes me feel like part of this large community of survivors. everyday that life goes on we are all survivors and we need to lean on each other. i’m sending you a hug().
Alexis Wittman, Portland, OR USA responded on 05 Aug 2011 at 5:34 pm #
Thanks for that dear insight to all the emotions pooling there in your eyes. You captured something very special. My dad experienced ALS and loosing him was the ‘long hard thing’…but even in that hardness, his gift to me was love. You too have received that sort of gift—
Widowed almost 4 years ago, I had to receive a different sort of gift..the gift of patience with myself. Grief is like a big huge bolder you have to carry along with you all the time…then slowly, slowly, slowly it grows from hard granite to soft sandstone and starts to wear away becoming smaller all the time. Then, one day? It is a diamond. Small and precious,coming out when you least expect it–as a token of the love that still lives for the one who went on ahead.
hugs–
alexis
Carolynn Sween responded on 09 Aug 2011 at 12:01 pm #
Thanks for this post…my uncle has been living with ALS for over 25 years. He has defied so many odds, it’s almost easy to get complacent about his (relative) health condition. Thanks for sharing Joe’s blog – it was a really poignent reminder for me of the daily struggle my uncle and so many others endure. My uncle is also a writer, and has put together a book of his essays (reflections on his faith, mostly, and how it helps him live his life with ALS), which we hope will be published some day. Much love to you and others who feel Joe’s loss so personally.