Opinion
Sitting shiva for my mum was such a blessing
My experience of bereavement brought home the agony of those who suffered in lockdown
March 25, 2022 09:42
3 min read
My experience of bereavement brought home the agony of those who suffered in lockdown
March 25, 2022 09:42The loss of a loving mother is an enormous blow, whatever age you are. My mother was the heart of our family, someone so kind and attentive to everyone’s needs that it is almost impossible to imagine life without her.
Her husband, my father, now has to contemplate life alone. He turned 94 this week. Wishing him “a long life” means very little. All we can do is hold his hand and listen to his memories of the girl he fell instantly in love with when he saw her across a crowded room at a party. “That’s the woman I’m going to marry,” he said to himself, and after a campaign of multiple proposals — on his knees, at party after party — she said “yes”. On their 63rd wedding anniversary, he gave her a magnificent orchid. Just over a week later, she died.
He, her children and grandchildren, her sisters, nephews and nieces are all heartbroken. And yet, despite our grief, all last week we reflected on how blessed we were in the timing of her death. Because we knew things could have been far worse. So many times during the pandemic we were unable to see our parents, and we knew that if they became ill and died then they would be alone. They were so vulnerable. We envisaged a hasty burial with almost no one present, and a shiva held on Zoom. For many families, that fear became reality.
As recently as December, my sister was unable to visit from her home in Israel because of the restrictions brought in for the Omicron variant. Mum was in hospital for two weeks in early February, and no one was allowed to go and see her. In the bed next to her there was a Covid patient, encased in a plastic “succah”. It felt like a miracle that Mum never caught Covid, that she was allowed to come home, and that my sister and niece were allowed to be with us, to help care for Mum as she faced death with her great courage and grace.
To be able to hold a “normal” funeral, to look around the prayer hall and see dozens of people, all there to respect her memory and support us — what a blessing that was. We were all mindful of family and friends, of strangers as well, who were deeply traumatised by the way that end-of-life rituals were curtailed by the pandemic.
We sat shiva for the full week, although we were grateful for the intermission in the middle that Purim gave us, a chance to rest and reflect mid-week. With six official mourners — Dad, my sister and brother and I, and Mum’s two sisters — there was a mixture of people coming through the door, although Covid kept many away. First cousins, second cousins, close friends and passing acquaintances. People who’d never met Mum, but were close friends of ours; people who remembered — 50 years on — how kind she’d been to them as children. Jews of all persuasions, from Chabad to Liberal, and non-Jews, too. The diversity reflected a life of reaching out to people, and the love that she gave was reflected back at us.
“Judaism was clearly designed by an extrovert,” said my daughter, and as I am very much an extrovert I found it an uplifting experience. But I was also aware of how draining it was for the introverts in the family, and how difficult it can be for shiva visitors to find the right words, or the right time to say them. It makes you feel strangely vulnerable when you don’t know who to expect through your door, when you can’t control the mixture of guests. The masks that many wore added to the strangeness. Several times I had (lovely) conversations with people, without a clue who they were. We joked that we needed name badges, colour coded to show whose friend the visitor was (in fact, I’d like to suggest this as a new shiva minhag).
Shiva is over now, the candle extinguished, the mirrors uncovered, the gifts of soup, shepherd’s pie and pasta bakes — thank you kind friends — mostly eaten. Soon my sister will return to Israel, and I will be back in the office. Normal life will resume eventually, as we say kaddish and plan a stone-setting. How lucky were we, how blessed, to be together. How sad I am for everyone who, over the last two years, could not benefit from the full support of human contact at the time it is most needed.