The Blessing of Sorrow Read online

  “Make it upbeat, Rabbi,” Mitchell’s father told me. The older gentleman was sad; I could see it, but his face would simply not be broken by it. There were people to greet and friends to glad-hand and introductions to be remade among people who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Folks were talking but souls were not mingling. The rituals were strictly the beats and measures of a gossip culture and not a civilization that is informed by the authentic seasons of life.

  The obvious was avoided as people walked in, wearing suits and sundresses, coiffed and generally not prepared to give in to tears. It was as though they had an unspoken agreement not to touch upon emotions. Attorneys, car dealers, stockbrokers, and real estate magnates mixed and caught up while sipping on the lemon-flavored cold water that flowed from two large crystal vessels. There was a kind of vague disbelief that clung to the room. It was as if nothing had really happened to them (as in Mitchell’s untimely death), but to strangers who were not present. The fierce need to talk about death, to reflect on the bitter ironies and nuances of his life, or to even wonder aloud if Mitchell’s soul was in transit, were simply avoided.

  I was struck by the undercurrent of denial—this ambiguity, if you will—because for decades people have come to me, sometimes in protracted states of terror, to ruminate about these very issues. There is simply no person whose inner life is not haunted by the fear of death or who doesn’t grope for comfort with assertions about the afterlife. We live privately in valleys but often gather for these public death rituals only on imaginary high hills.

  There was a series of speakers who shared fond anecdotes of the fun-loving, notoriously mischievous Mitchell. Some of the eulogists were sophomoric, cloaking their nervousness about death in their tales of silly pranks and drunken camping expeditions. Others were more dignified, acknowledging the shock and sorrow that Mitchell’s wife, ten-year-old son, and parents were suffering. Deep human sympathies were surely conveyed, but the crowd never really heard the story and consequence of Mitchell’s life. There was little ruefulness, few expressions of human longings; all but nothing articulated that could be described as heartbreaking, even though this death was particularly heartrending, mysterious, and unresolved. People leaned forward slightly, their lips parted as they listened. But they did not appear to be forming words in their heads. The American way of death does not always invoke gravitas from us. We just have to show up and nod our heads with sympathy.

  This was, in the end, a light afternoon romp that mostly avoided any shadows and ultimately evaded the tragic lonesomeness and disbelief that had to have been eating away at Mitchell’s family. Nobody even mentioned the word “grief.”

  A reception followed outdoors along the grassy, seashore garden of the grand lodge. I had performed many weddings at this same spot and the atmosphere and ambience were now similar to this gathering of bereaved friends and family. An army of waiters and attendants labored briskly to supply and service the guests with platters of appetizers, salmon dishes, sushi, beef, salads, and some vegan options. There was a “kids’ corner,” offering the requisite grilled burgers, hot dogs, french fries, and a selection of ice cream and other desserts.

  The servers, clad in smart black-and-white uniforms, handed people shiny plates and silverware and kept the buffet replenished. Others among the laborers circled the garden and deferentially refilled people’s coffee or teacups. And there was a bar set up in one corner that offered wine and spirits. There was much laughter and glibness; people caught up together about their businesses and families.

  I noticed that in one corner of the lawn, Susan, the young widow, shy, slim, wearing a chic black dress, was trapped before a line of guests, some of them holding piled plates of food in one hand. They were all anxious to personally offer their condolences—a noble effort, but I could see that it was overwhelming her. She was being prevented from sitting down and having something to eat herself. The memorial service, which included several vivacious and inspiring gospel presentations by a locally renowned, racially mixed choir, had gone on for some two hours. It was now past 1:00 p.m. and people were hungry.

  At least twenty individuals, aware they had the chance now to address Susan, successively approached, embraced, and spoke to her. She continuously nodded her head dutifully. She appeared dazed. The sun was high in the sky and the heat added to the widow’s gathering weariness. But what also concerned me was that just moments after a ceremony paying tribute to a young father killed in an accident, the ten-year-old son of this widow, Jason, was nowhere near her. I thought the mother and son should be united in this situation, to hearten one another, to serve as a buffer between the well-meaning onslaughts of condolence-givers, and to mourn as wife and child of a man whose life was just remembered.

  It was incongruous to me that these two immediate survivors were disconnected from one another at that moment. Maybe I was being self-righteous but that’s how I felt. My heart hurt for little Jason in particular. Before the service had begun that morning, he was polite when I approached him to talk but would not engage with me. He smiled at me but then looked down at the floor when I asked him about his dad. It was hard to find his face under his bushy head of blond hair.

  Now my eyes scanned the spacious garden lawn and, off in an opposite corner, I saw Jason chewing on a burger in the kids’ food sector and not particularly interacting with the other youngsters. I walked over to Susan and, even as people pressed against her, gently took her elbow. “Susan,” I said. “You must be hungry. Why don’t we find Jason and you two can have a bite together?”

  She assented, letting out a breath, and we began to walk in the direction where Jason sat. People still came up to her when they saw her trying to pass by. Finally, we got to Jason. He looked up, unsmiling. She did not lean over nor gather in her son. There was a formality between them, even a distance. I offered to bring her a plate of food and then, after thanking me, she sat down next to her son.

  When I returned a few moments later, neither mother nor son was at the table. I saw Jason playing tag with a few other boys nearby, his little blue blazer gone and his shirttail flying. I looked across the lawn area and noticed Susan again standing and surrounded by well-wishers. I felt a sense of failure, and not a little bit bemused by what I thought was strange behavior. It was a mixture of bruised professional pride and a genuine unease about the lost opportunity for the grieving mother and son to begin sustaining each other.

  Suddenly, I felt a soft tap my shoulder. Like a feather of memory, it was something perceptible only to me and as undeniable as the situation to which I was ministering at that moment.

  I didn’t have to turn around or even move at all to discern who was calling on me. It wasn’t anybody one could see. It was an old spirit forever alive in my being, intermittently guiding me, correcting me, and cheering me to the realization that in spite of all the chaos and pain in the world, there is an order in the universe that is finally revealed on the other side. Her name on earth was Charlotte Banda and I helped her family to bury her almost twenty years earlier. She didn’t whisper to me frequently but I heard her Polish-inflected voice at that moment on the lawn along the Pacific horizon. For me, she remains a talisman from heaven.

  “It is not for us to judge. It is for us to help. Honor the mystery, as we have discussed.”

  Then she was gone. So too was my haughtiness and fervor to manage and fix everything. Bereavement is a book of many chapters. I breathed out in relief and clarity. Charlotte had sent me back to another moment: I remembered my twelve-year-old sister dancing among the headstones nearby while my mother, brother, and I stood over my father’s casket being lowered into the ground so long ago. No one interfered or forced my sister to come closer to the open earth and the Hebrew devotions being uttered above the plain pine coffin and the wailing that engulfed the circle. In pure grief, no one was judgmental. We were all doing the best we could in the midst of an unspeakable situation. Grief is personal, idiosyncratic, and age-sensitive. Sometimes it
is a dance and sometimes it is a silent retreat. But sooner rather than later, we who suffer it must sit down at its table and eat from its bitterness. That’s all we can do as those who are living, hurting, and trying to recover while on this side.

  3 Sigmund Freud, Reflections on War and Death (New York: Moffat, Yard, and Company, 1918).

  4 Dr. Pamela Wible writing on the website, KevinMD.com. http://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2015/03/why-did-this-image-of-a-crying-doctor-go-viral-heres-why.htm.

  5 Colette, Letters from Colette (New York: Random House, 1983), 61.

  6 I personally have observed that people suffer most grievously after losing a child, but don’t think there is any definitive scientific conclusion here. To lose anyone you love is an immeasurably harsh reality.

  Chapter Two

  The Stages of Grief Are Personal: What Do the Dying Teach Us about Life?

  “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”

  Thomas Campbell

  Julie Axelrod, a clinician, has written about the generally understood stages of grief. Like most transitions in human life, the process takes time and it has its own schedule. It is challenging and hard. Dealing with loss is a personal matter; it is as unique as each one of us. Nonetheless, there is widespread agreement on the progression of the stages in bereavement. Axelrod lists the five stages of grief and loss as:

  1.Denial and isolation. This is the defense and survival mechanism against the emotional shock.

  2.Anger. We project the anger on others, even blaming others for the death. We discover feelings of anger against the deceased for dying and leaving us alone.

  3.Bargaining. We are filled with a sense of helplessness mixed in with regrets. (“He wouldn’t have died if I/we had done more to help.” Therapists and grief counselors generally agree that the bargaining stage (i.e., when we make deals with the powers above to reverse the painful reality of a death) is especially difficult. “Bargaining is actually a vain expression that the bad news is reversible.”7

  4.Depression. We sink into feelings of loss, anguish, and regret. The reality also sets in.

  5.Acceptance. We finally come to terms with our sorrow and guilt.

  People who are grieving do not necessarily go through the stages in the same order or experience all of them.8

  I believe those in mourning need to move through all the stages before they finally arrive at acceptance. It is not an easy emotional transaction, but it is crucially important. Axelrod’s declaration that grieving people do not all experience the exact same steps or not necessarily in perfect order is also significant. Be aware that there are stages, but do not assume you are a textbook case. If you do that, it may cause you deeper confusion and anxiety; you might be asking yourself, “Wait, this is not according to the official cycle. What am I doing or experiencing that is wrong?” When you grieve, you must be yourself. However you pass through, pass through. At some time (and, again, this varies from person to person) you will have progressed to acceptance. There will be a time when you do finally feel that breakthrough. Your beloved dead want you to live.

  When I was fourteen years old I witnessed the effect of mortality for the first time, and in public. Being in the direct presence of someone about to depart the earth can help guide us across the bridge of grief. When we prepare for an approaching death or are in recovery, it helps us to filter our grief with structure and support. My experience has taught me that the more we are exposed to death, the less we will fear it.

  The Palmers

  Many members of the small congregation to which my family belonged were gathered at a wedding banquet for the children of good friends of my parents. This emotional celebration was filled with hard-working people who shared much joy and sorrow over the years.

  Following the marriage ceremony, as people were feting the couple, a hush began to spread through the room. The rabbi of the congregation was coming to pay a visit and he was bringing his wife along. She hadn’t been seen much around the community because she was terminally ill with cancer. The arrival of Rabbi Palmer and his wife was of particular interest to us youngsters, who had otherwise been preoccupied with the loud music, the pizza appetizers, and the opposite sex.

  As it turned out, the adults in the room knew Rabbi and Mrs. Palmer were coming to say goodbye. They had been with our community for four years and were respected and well liked. Sylvia Palmer, however, wanted to return to her native Australia in order to die there. Many people at that wedding party knew this. The parents of the bride had invited the rabbi and his wife for the whole evening but the Palmers wanted to just stop by and not intrude upon a happy occasion with their anguish.

  Rabbi Palmer, a tall tree of melancholy, suddenly appeared on the podium where the band stopped playing. I saw his blue eyes glisten with moisture. He nervously stroked his prematurely gray beard. He was saying something about affection and bonds and milestones that he would now miss, when a ghost appeared from behind him.

  Sylvia Palmer was creamy white and drawn. Her smile at first startled us; there seemed to be no breath moving through her mouth and it appeared as though her teeth barely clung to her gums. Her strapping husband held her hand but it looked as though he could have lifted his wife in one palm. Mrs. Palmer wore a wig that was already tipped in the direction of eternity. Some of the people in the room sobbed, but most were spellbound. During what had been a jubilant moment in life, we were all confronted with the reality of mortality. The shadow of grief clung to the hall.

  Sylvia Palmer floated toward the microphone. Her husband hovered just behind her, immense yet tender. She stood erect, however, and we saw her eyes still shone with life. Her sad smile came through and she spoke one sentence: “I am grateful for the life I’ve had and accept what will be.”

  She then bowed her head slightly in the direction of the mesmerized bride and groom and disappeared behind her aching husband. The space the two visitors had occupied was empty once more. The band played on again, and soon after coffee and dessert were served.

  What does this say to you or to any person in mourning? Or to someone who is preparing to lose a loved one? Perhaps we can find an answer given by an eleventh-century scholar named Bahya ben Joseph ibn Pakuda: “Life and death are brothers; they live in the same house. Life is the entrance, death is the exit.”9 Indeed, as we pass through the journey of life, we discern that existence is not unlimited. One by one, our loved ones and friends disappear from view and we become more apprehensive for ourselves.

  When we grieve, we discover that by being human, we are truly vulnerable to cancer, heart disease, any assortment of deficiencies and viruses, and the aging process. Mortality is the condition we were born with but that went essentially unheeded until the later season of our lives—though people die at all ages. From death, we learn that life ends; from mortality, we learn that life teaches. This is what Charlotte Banda, the soul who signaled me to forbearance at that seaside memorial I described earlier, taught me.

  Charlotte, who survived the ghettos, boxcars, and concentration camps of the Nazi Holocaust before arriving in Canada as a teenager, once told me, “Learn from my death. Don’t give me all away to it.” Charlotte—and your loved one—wanted to be remembered as he or she was in life, breathing, coaxing, inspiring, loving, and teaching you and me something of real value. Grief is the direct passageway to their words and deeds and insights.

  In short, mortality and the dead themselves implore us to ask: What is important?

  In the course of my bereavement work, I have observed that a thoughtful acceptance of life’s limits can create a personal feeling of well-being. And it can help us deal with the loss of a loved one or a dear friend. A little bit of spirituality can be more helpful than a lot of portfolios; death is oblivious to wealth and holdings, to power and rank.

  Death need not be feared and it cannot be evaded in acts of outrage, impropriety, or narcissism. Submit to it just as you participated in life’s revelries. Meanwhile, there is often relief in
death, tranquility in death, gratitude in death, even blessing in death. Nothing else can happen to your beloved who suffered long and hard in illness and/or without a feeling of dignity and independence. No more pain or humiliation. No more waiting in trepidation. Your dead simply lie or float in utter peace.

  I have seen this serenity of acceptance in people who regarded and practiced life with a measure of sanctity and thankfulness. When people die, the way they pass on (unless it is the result of a tragic accident or violence) tends to reflect the way they lived. Folks I knew who were sweet to life generally died sweetly. Those who had something to do with spirituality generally went into “the good night” without a lot of fanfare; those who were hard on themselves and on others struggled proportionately in their deathbeds.

  In the course of many years of work with the living and dying, I have learned to regard mortality with respect and reverence, acknowledging its magnificent tyranny as the sure sign that there is some kind of greater hand that guides the universe. And this in turn assures me that there is more to life than our temporary interval on this earth.

  Ethan and His Daughters

  In Gates of Repentance: The New Union Prayerbook for the Days of Awe, a prayer book published by the Central Conference of American Rabbis, it is written:

  If some messenger were to come to us with the offer that death should be overthrown, but with the one inseparable condition that birth should also cease; if the existing generation were given the chance to live forever, but on the clear understanding that never again would there be a child, or a youth, or first love, never again new persons with new hopes, new ideas, new achievements, ourselves for always and never any others—could the answer be in doubt?10

  I remembered this devotion when visiting with Ethan Forsch, Jr. Ethan was ninety-four years old, in home hospice, dependent upon oxygen, and quite impatient. His two daughters, Betty and Carla, sat on the adjacent bed and kept their teary eyes on their father. “How are things with you, Ethan?” I inquired.