The Shiva

I always get a little paralyzed here. Probably most people do.

You might know that shiva refers to the seven days of mourning that follow a close relative's funeral. Such a mourner, in Jewish tradition, sits at home, refrains from work and withdraws from the usual affairs of life; but takes visitors, dozens, sometimes, at a time.

Friends and relatives in a community come to visit during the week, even if they're not particularly close to the mourners. Sometimes the shiva is shorter than the traditional seven days. It may last only three days, maybe only one, depending upon the custom. But no matter how long, visitors serve to soften the intensity of the loss; the presence of visitors fills the void. For a little while.

It should be easy to make a visit like this one. A person isn't really required to say anything. All a person has to do is be there, take a seat and listen. In the more observant homes, the people sitting shiva are seated on low chairs, their blouse torn just a little; they face others, those who are not in mourning, who are seated across from them.

Usually someone's talking, not necessarily about the person who passed away, either. It's not unusual to hear people talk about anything but the person who has passed away. And that's okay if that's okay with the person(s) in mourning. Sometimes, as a mourner, you just know that it's going to be a very long week, so you're fine with the light motif, the banter that gives you a break.

It happens to be the three weeks,* an unlucky time for the Jewish people, so when someone passes away during this season we sort of look at one another and say, It's a three weeks thing, and everyone gets it.

But when it's cancer that takes a life during the three weeks, I always go, Nah, it's cancer. And everyone gets that, too. We know that many presentations of the disease are curable, and the survivors, the soldiers, are our heroes. But occasionally, it's not a winning battle, and the fallen become our sacrifice and we respect them even more.

So today I wanted to make a condolence call, but did everything in my power not to go, did an admirable job of sabotaging my time. I found an old chandelier in the basement and since I had a couple of hours to spare, decided that this would be a good time to wash the crystals, even though the thing has so many broken pieces it should probably go to Salvation Army and will.

After about an hour, though, I took the walk over to the shiva house. Slowly. I felt terrible that I hadn't visited her when she was sick. I've known she was sick for almost a decade. I'd walk by her house on any given day and sometimes she'd be sitting outside on a chair and we'd talk for awhile, maybe ten, fifteen minutes, just chew the fat about nonsense. She would ask about my kids; she remembered them, had taught them some twenty years ago.

But I never went in. You know what I mean. I never took that second step of going inside when she wasn't well enough to sit outside.

And boy, I'm so sorry about this. I feel so badly.

Earlier this morning I caught FD for just a second before he went to work, took him by surprise, made him face me as I shouted, "I just hate myself for not visiting her when she was sick!"

He totally understood and shook his head. "I know, I know, me, too. What was wrong with us?"

"We'll you're always visiting sick people. You're in the hospital and they're sick, or they manage to find you if you don't find them. It has to be a lesson for me, is all. This sort of thing just makes me feel like garbage. Had the chance. Let it pass. It'll never be there again. Gone."

I had ten years to do that, visit.

When my daughter heard about the death she said, "How could that happen? Wait a minute! You don't mean this! She was so young! She couldn't be much older than you, right?"

She was sick a long time, dear. Age has nothing to do with it.

So I shuffle along, finally walk through her door. Immediately I sense the atmosphere is light. My neighbor/friend's mother, the woman who has just lost her daughter, looks up at me, catches my eye as I get my bearings. She smiles a smile of confused recognition, one that says,

I'm sure we've met. Who are you?

We have never met. She has other people sitting with her, talking to her. I can see the mourner I know the best, my neighbor's husband, with a chair open right in front of him. He smiles, happy to see me. I sit with him and we talk awhile about how things used to be.

It's funny. We, the visitors, are only there because a person used to be there. A person used to be a part of the way things used to be, but isn't any more. And yet we're talking about grocery stores that are no longer, toy stores that have relocated, and how people used to be so nice in a snowstorm.

And then he inserts her. He says, "She told me that I had to fight her parking ticket for her because I didn't move the car in that storm, so of course I did, I fought it and won, and it's a good thing I did."

And there she is. And I feel better. The light motif is still light, but it's more meaningful.

At some point I see his daughters, young married women with young children, and I talk to them. They're very much about talking about their mother and their loss, and how we must, we simply must find a cure for breast cancer. Someone mentions Mike Dewey, the Texan who has offered $1 billion dollars to anyone who finds a cure. I feel the time slipping away, know I have to get to work, so I say the magic condolence formula that we say to mourners** and ask the younger women, "Where's your grandmother?"

I'm asking about the woman who caught my eye when I walked in the door. She has vacated her seat. I want to meet her, to tell her how much I admired her daughter, how I'll miss her, too. They tell me, "Try the kitchen."

Where else?

So I head there, to the kitchen, and sure enough, the elderly woman with that certain spark, that glint, smiles when she sees me. I recognize the spark because her daughter had it too, that quick way of creating humor, a way of making things light, happy. Humor is communicated through the eyes of these people, the ones with the sparkle in their eyes.

I introduce myself. I say I'm So and So's niece. Everyone knows my aunt in this community, there weren't that many Orthodox families in town when my mother, my aunt, and this woman were girls. Chicago has grown, but the native Orthodox all know one another.

"You looked familiar! I knew I knew you," she exclaims. "And now I know why! You have the family resemblance."

I don't want to disappoint her. I look like my father's side. But it's okay. We shmooze awhile, standing in the kitchen.

"And how did you get this?" I ask, pointing to a sling on her arm. "It's very stylish, but still."

She's coy, lowers her voice, the twinkle is blinding. She says, "Well, I'll tell you the truth. I just. . .I just wasn't getting enough attention on Thursday (the day of the funeral) so I tripped and made them take me to the hospital. I think it was brilliant." She's smiling the smile that caught the canary, making this our little not-so-private joke, and it is, it is really, really funny.

"You go to a lot of trouble for attention. You could go pro."

"I know," she says proudly. "And look! It worked!"

"Except," I correct her, "that you're stuck with a lot of pain for who knows how long."***

"Four weeks, the doctor says. It could hurt for four weeks. I'll need a lot of attention."

"Four weeks if you're lucky!" I cry. "It could go on for six weeks, eight weeks!"

"I told them! I told them this!" she exclaims upon hearing my prognosis, triumphant. "I told them it could go on for eight weeks. Come. Come with me. You have to tell them." She takes me by the elbow, guides me back to the living room where they're sitting shiva.

"Tell them!" she commands, for all to hear, pointing in the direction of her daughter, the only daughter left, the only mourner I've yet to meet. There's a small crowd of women sitting around her but I introduce myself, tell the only daughter left that I'm sorry about her sister.

"Tell her!" the matriarch insists. "Tell her how long it could take for this arm to heal!" She's having a ball. She loves this.

"Are you a doctor?" asks her daughter.

"Not a medical doctor. A PhD."

"That's fine. Even better," the daughter affirms, going along with the script. "So tell me, doctor, how long will my mother need this sling?"

I shake my head gravely. "I don't know. It could be very, very bad. Could be six to eight weeks. Maybe more. Could be years."

No one's got a straight face here, but boy, I'm trying. I shrug. "I would keep a good eye on her if I were you," I say, looking up and to the right, clearly deep in thought.

Then I tell over the condolence blessing to the only daughter left, kiss my new friend and say it again, and leave, always amazed at how these things go.

therapydoc

* You can read more about the three weeks on the Cirque du Soleil post, there are links at the end from bloggers who know the rules.

** It's in Hebrew and basically says The place of all comfort should comfort you among the mourners within the gates of Jerusalem. Some prefer to say simply, We should meet at simchas, happy occasions, or You should know no more sorrow, like that's possible, but it's a blessing, basically. All positive shoulds, you should, are blessings in this religion, or can be.

***for who knows how long is a Jewish way of marking time that goes on and on, as it does.

Other bloggers who have posted on shiva include:

Amy Kronish writing about Shiva the movie (who knew?) directed by Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz

Patti, not religious at all, but still sitting virtual shiva at Live to Lounge writes about having lost her brother very recently. If you're very sensitive, you may not want to gaze at the banner, nude art alert, consider yourself warned. But say hello, wish her well. Why not?

Oaxaca is interested in comparating religions over at the Bed and Breakfast.

Vesom Sechel , kind of serious, but okay, this is a serious subject, generally, that is.