October 9 2012

Yom Kippur 2012 with Mom: I had flown in the week before when Mom was admitted to the hospital, as she’d been complaining for a while about shortness of breath and tiredness. I felt for well over a week before that something was going wrong, but at distance of 700 miles it’s hard to be forceful with relatives on the ground, including Mom. After six very scary days in hospital, where she was diagnosed with pneumonia as well as congestive heart failure (leaky valves that apparently had been going bad for a while), she was moved to Whitehall rehab facility, oxygen tank and all. My emergency medical flight booking had me flying home at 6 a.m. the day of Yom Kippur, but I didn’t bother with that at first as I knew from previous sad experiences I could change that when I knew what was more likely. (And that’s another whole story itself; later).

Erev Yom Kippur, Mom had only had a day of therapies and was by now on antibiotics for the pneumonia, but was already feeling better enough to begin to worry about having to eat, and do the three times a day therapy, on the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. Of course she knew she had to do what was necessary for her health, but it weighed heavily on her nonetheless. We knew there would be some attempt at something for the holiday at Whitehall (NOT a Jewish facility) and traditional services at Gidwitz, but what they were and what times were uncertain. So on Wednesday the 26th, Erev Yom Kippur, we planned to go to a 2 p.m. event at Whitehall, and scheduled her therapies around this. It turned out to be a lecture on Chicago, not at all what we hoped. Mom and I were not happy… Then I noticed that at 4 p.m. someone was doing something related to the holiday, and as her therapies finished earlier, we decided to try it out. I had already promised Mom that whatever wasn’t done at Whitehall that she felt important, we would do together, using the same books my parents had always used for the High Holidays, their names still on the books I remember from my childhood. As it happened, that 4 p.m. event was really meaningful. A woman whose husband was a patient brought in a tape of Cantor Mizrachi singing Kol Nidre, the beautiful prayer about oaths, with an equally wonderful choir. There were perhaps a dozen people gathered in the small sunroom, about 25% who clearly had no idea where they were, another 25% with visible serious physical problems as well as some dementia, and the remaining folks much like Mom, mentally intact but physically in rough shape. As I looked at these (all older) folks, once again I was struck by the poignancy of their thinning hair, swollen or missing limbs, involuntary movements and articulations that they could no longer control. And I was struck once again, as always when I am lucky enough to daven with the seniors (and by that I mean really senior, as I of course at 66 am a less senior senior myself) that each of these people were once vigorous and presumably full of hope, once loved by someone as much as I love Mom, once in control of their lives and probably other people’s as well. And now – here we sit, listening to our ancient prayers, some no longer capable of even holding a book, but nodding with eyes closed to the tunes passed down through the generations. It was truly beautiful and moving, especially at the end when the woman who brought the tape asked for a moment more, to read a modern but equally moving prayer that spoke about those not able to fast, not able to keep this holiday as they used to, not because of lack of faith but sadly because their bodies can no longer do as they wish. It was a comfort to me, and I hope to Mom too.

Soon after that, Mom’s dinner was brought to her room, and I drove back to Gidwitz to microwave something quickly, and was back in about half an hour to do as I had promised, pray the Kol Nidre service somehow with Mom. My main concern was to find a quiet place with decent light, so we could at least read in English what we weren’t up to chanting in the Hebrew (and that was LOTS of passages, though of course Mom remembered more than I!). I pushed Mom’s wheelchair, with the portable oxygen tank, both prayer books, and a box of tissues (we always cry) down to the end of a very long hallway, and parked her right under a bright light, dragging a chair from one of the lounges next to her. We opened our books, and began to take turns reading in English, and Hebrew as best we could. We had been at this for barely ten minutes when my choice of venue revealed itself to be a poor one. First, someone started shampooing the hall rug at the opposite end of the hall, coming ever neared and louder; the noise was very loud, but we persisted. Next, the intercom I hadn’t noticed began to go off at regular intervals, announcing pretty much everything any staff member was doing, should be doing, or was scheduled to do. We blew our noses and kept on. When we reached the “Al Cheit”, the prayer listing sins we may have committed, it’s traditional to lightly strike one’s heart at each sin, and so we did, to the accompanying roar of the shampoo machine and the counterpoint of announcements.

It was then I noticed a woman (apparently visiting someone in the last room of this hallway) staring at us, and thought that she must think we are crazy people. But I was wrong (though we may in fact be crazy people), as she came over with tears in her eyes and asked if we minded that she listen. Of course we invited her to join us, and though she didn’t sit down, she stayed until we had finished that prayer and thanked us. I can only assume that this was a Jewish soul with her own deep sorrow, alone on this special night except for whomever she was visiting; and that it was a real privilege for me to be with her, and Mom. After about an hour and a half, when we were doing one of the repetitions of “Al Cheit”, it seemed to me that Mom had had enough, and needed to get back to bed rest. She agreed, so I wheeled her back to her room, waited until she was put in bed by a staffer and had the portable oxygen swapped back to the standing unit, and then drove back to Gidwitz. And I was thinking that here I had just declared my sins, and before the holiday was half over, had already committed new ones: driving, turning on lights, riding in an elevator, drinking water – no wonder I sobbed over the “Al Cheit”! The apartment was dark, as I only had one light on, and in the silence of the night my father, and my grandparents, and all my beloved family and friends who have passed on seemed very close.

The next morning, I went to the Gidwitz service for Yizkor, as I promised Mom I would do, for my father, grandparents, and all of Mom’s six siblings. As usually happens, the service was running late, and packed, but my friend Lou, who eats breakfast with Mom, made the person sitting next to him get up and give me that seat. While Lou is nothing at all like my father in looks or personality, he wears the same large tallis, folded over his shoulders the same way, and it was very comforting to me. When I named out my beloved dead, and he, his, we held each other’s hands. Again I felt what a blessing, and honor, it was to be among these people, who knew my father (in fewer and fewer cases) and know my mother. As soon as these services ended, I drove to Whitehall to take Mom to the one, dedicated, specifically planned Yom Kippur service there. It will tell you all you need to know about the service that when the time came to blow the shofar, which the man leading the service did not bring, he just read out: tekia, terua.. Not what we hoped, not what we had expected. He just very quickly read, in English, parts of the service. But – the woman who brought the tape, and her husband, sat next to us. And when we came to a prayer that we all knew the Hebrew words to, and the tune, we just all four sang out right over whatever else was or wasn’t happening, until we were satisfied. I’m grateful and glad we had two more voices to join ours; Mom still sounds pretty good but at this stage of my life I have a three-note capacity, and everything else is just squeaks.

That service being finished, my sister joined us and we three went in search again for a private, quiet place to pray the Yizkor service with Mom. This time we had better luck, no shampooing, no noises, we sat in a corner of the large room where the other services had been held, and went through the books again. It was heartbreaking to hear Mom slowly name each of her siblings in Hebrew, both her parents, and of course Daddy, when all three of us just sobbed and sobbed. But even as I was crying, I was also conscious of the fact that my mother’s absolute determination to perform whatever she could for this holiday is such a positive teaching for me, my sister, and you with whom I share this. Though very worn down by her illness, and worried about the future as well as mourning the loved ones of the past, Mom never really faltered in her prayers, as her faith never falters in her heart. And I am sure, as there is a just Gd in Heaven, that Mom’s prayers must have been heard. I just hope my own tagged along on her merit.