Life after that first conversion was not much different quantitatively, but there had been a shift in direction. I had been forced to choose to be Jewish, and I would never again take my Jewishness for granted. I wouldn't say that it was constantly on my mind, but it was certainly always at the back of my mind.
A lot happened in our personal lives over those next few years. We had to find a level of observance that was comfortable and livable. Comfortable regarding how are personal level of commitment jived with our actions. Livable regarding balancing both our level of commitment as individuals and our commitment as a couple. There was also the commitment to each other. I think last component is not always given the attention is needs. We tried to make everything we did a mutual decision. For exmple, for a long time we kept kosher in the house but ate out in restaurants.
At this point I want to stress that I am not making any recommendations; I am simply recording what we did. In retrospect, we really should have asked for some advice about how and what or if to add. The truth is, though, we did not look at this as a process at all. Looking back, of course, it was; we were moving all the time. But at the time we didn't think of it that way. We were just living our lives.
So... what did we do? In the house we were very strict about using kosher meat and reading labels on food; all things being equal we would use a product with a hechsher (kosher symbol), but we weren't fanatic about it. We did not use kosher cheese nor wine. We had two sets of dishes for year around and another two for Passover. We ate out, but only fish and vegetarian. Shabbos and holidays basically meant no driving (except to and from synagogue) and no shopping.
We made a sukkah nearly every year. Bought lulav and esrog sometimes. Pesach was a major event. We were definitely the most kosher then. We had a large seder every year. Lots of friends, sometimes family. I went to synagogue Shabbos morning and on holidays. I often went to the Sunday, Monday, and Thursday minyanim. I also went though periods when I would lay t'fillin and at least say "sh'ma" on other days. We did not make blessing before our after eating during the week; though we sometimes did on Shabbos.
I would like to say that we did all that they we did because that was the recommendation of the conservative movement. (There is book that describes how to observe the conservative jewish religion; I'll be happy to discuss that with you privately.) Honestly, though... we had found a comfortable(ish) level of observance and the book was more a justification of our actions rather than a source for them.
That pretty much sums up our Jewish living during those years (nearly a decade worth). I think we would have lived out our lives that way; then Providence stepped in... again. I was then thrown (again) into the position of having to directly confront who I was and what I wanted to be.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Our Second Wedding -- a short postscript.
Our second wedding was really a very small affair. On the other hand, it had the fanciest k'suva (you are welcome to see it if you like). Besides being fancy, it has two cute deficiencies. First, one of the witnesses is a woman; which renders it pusul. Even better though... it has the wrong date on it! In the Rabbi's office I mentioned that Debbie and I would probably always be arguing about which anniversary to celebrate, the first wedding or this one. "No problem", said one of the authorities present, "we'll just date it Aug 7; it doesn't really matter anyway." How right he was; I should have realized something was wrong at that point. Oh well...
Sunday, December 03, 2006
My First Conversion
I never really did convince the Rabbi that I needed a real conversion, but I did have the support of the (Conservative Jewish) cantor, a few other friends, and my wife. So now all I needed was to "do the deed", so to speak. A real conversion requires three things for a man (two, as will be obvious, of a woman).
We all decided that the acceptance of mitvos part was taken care of my by Bar Mitzvah. We only needed mikveh and hatafas dam. In case it wasn't obvious, by the way, not any drop of blood would do; it had to be blood from the same place it would come in case of a full circumcision. Of course, being as this was Salt Lake City we had neither mohel nor mikveh. But we did have a Jewish urologist who did all the circumcisions for bris mila, and he had a built into the ground hot tub. How much more convenient could it be?
So, on the agreed upon date, the cantor and I drove up to the urologist house. One little snag... we needed three jewish men for the bais din, and we only had the cantor and the urologist. No problem... someone remembered that there was a 16 year old teenage boy home from school and camp who could come over. So I got a towel and went into another room to get undressed. Now try to picture this next scene. I come up of the bathroom dressed only in a towel, figuring we are going straight to the hot tub to get this taken care of. Nope. The urologists family is there. His wife is making drinks for everyone. We are waiting for the teenage boy from down the street. They offered me a gin and tonic; I declined. I am trying to act as natural as possible standing there in only a towel while everyone has there drinks. I would love to say that they mercifully left me out of the conversation... but they didn't. Ok, finally the young man arrives and we can go finish up.
First, hatafas dam. He is a doctor, right? So he first has to give me a local anesthetic -- administered by needle (I would later reflect on the fact that he could have gotten a drop of blood with a needle that size in the first place... ow well...) Then he got out his scalpel. Problem was, after that shot, all the blood had run away to hide. So he had to cut a little deeper than he expected... just under the anesthetic, of course. Perfect, didn't hurt too badly (either time), and a nice clean incision. In fact, such a clean incision that it took a while to stop bleeding. Finally stopped bleeding, I shed the towel the rest of the way, and went into the hot tub to immerse. When I came up they told me to say "Sh'ma". I felt very holy. I have no idea what that poor teenage boy was thinking.
In any case, I had had my conversion and I was now really Jewish (Conservative, anyway). One more detail to take care of... getting married. Having gone from non-Jew to Jew, I now needed a Jewish marriage to my wife. Or, rather, a marriage as a Jew to my Jewish wife. The Rabbi did agree to participate in this ceremony. I wore my brown corduroy leisure suit, my wife wore a nice skirt and top and covered her hair... with a yarmulka. We got married in the little chapel in the Synagogue, our friends come over and had lunch. Life was good.
- Acceptance of the mitzvos in front of a Bais Din (Jewish Tribunal)
- Mikveh (Ritual Immersion)
- Bris Mila (circumcision for the sake of being Jewish) or (if one is already circumcised) Hatafas Dam (literally, "a drop of blood"
We all decided that the acceptance of mitvos part was taken care of my by Bar Mitzvah. We only needed mikveh and hatafas dam. In case it wasn't obvious, by the way, not any drop of blood would do; it had to be blood from the same place it would come in case of a full circumcision. Of course, being as this was Salt Lake City we had neither mohel nor mikveh. But we did have a Jewish urologist who did all the circumcisions for bris mila, and he had a built into the ground hot tub. How much more convenient could it be?
So, on the agreed upon date, the cantor and I drove up to the urologist house. One little snag... we needed three jewish men for the bais din, and we only had the cantor and the urologist. No problem... someone remembered that there was a 16 year old teenage boy home from school and camp who could come over. So I got a towel and went into another room to get undressed. Now try to picture this next scene. I come up of the bathroom dressed only in a towel, figuring we are going straight to the hot tub to get this taken care of. Nope. The urologists family is there. His wife is making drinks for everyone. We are waiting for the teenage boy from down the street. They offered me a gin and tonic; I declined. I am trying to act as natural as possible standing there in only a towel while everyone has there drinks. I would love to say that they mercifully left me out of the conversation... but they didn't. Ok, finally the young man arrives and we can go finish up.
First, hatafas dam. He is a doctor, right? So he first has to give me a local anesthetic -- administered by needle (I would later reflect on the fact that he could have gotten a drop of blood with a needle that size in the first place... ow well...) Then he got out his scalpel. Problem was, after that shot, all the blood had run away to hide. So he had to cut a little deeper than he expected... just under the anesthetic, of course. Perfect, didn't hurt too badly (either time), and a nice clean incision. In fact, such a clean incision that it took a while to stop bleeding. Finally stopped bleeding, I shed the towel the rest of the way, and went into the hot tub to immerse. When I came up they told me to say "Sh'ma". I felt very holy. I have no idea what that poor teenage boy was thinking.
In any case, I had had my conversion and I was now really Jewish (Conservative, anyway). One more detail to take care of... getting married. Having gone from non-Jew to Jew, I now needed a Jewish marriage to my wife. Or, rather, a marriage as a Jew to my Jewish wife. The Rabbi did agree to participate in this ceremony. I wore my brown corduroy leisure suit, my wife wore a nice skirt and top and covered her hair... with a yarmulka. We got married in the little chapel in the Synagogue, our friends come over and had lunch. Life was good.
Monday, November 20, 2006
A bump in the road.
In Salt Lake City we made a lot of friends and had a very positive experience with the Jewish community. I started teaching sunday school (7th grade; and found out I am not good with middle-schoolers). My wife became a "kosher cop" of sorts. She would go to various establishments and verify that they used only kosher ingredients and therefore could be used at the synagogue. We went to adult education classes in making Shabbat. We helped organize events for Jewish students at the university. We went to services every Friday night and Saturday morning. I also went most Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays; and I bought my first pair of t'fillin. Basically, we were enjoying being active members of our synagogue and the Jewish community.
We also learned how to make a Jewish home by spending times with Jews in their homes... especially Shabbos and holidays. One of those Friday nights out (we drove on Shabbos in those days) while discussing our family history, I mentioned that my mother had had a conversion (Reform) when I was six. "So your mother wasn't Jewish when you were born?", my host asked. "Right.", I said. "So then, you aren't Jewish.", my host said. "Oh... right.", I responded.
I had known somewhere in the back of my mind that "Jewishness" goes through the mother; I had just never applied that idea to myself. So agreeing that I wasn't Jewish wasn't so much expressing a new idea as it was simply acknowledging long known but unexplored truth. Like saying the american flag has thirteen red and white stripes. True but relatively uninteresting until you want to make a flag and can't remember whether the top stripe is red or white (it's red). The fact that my mother wasn't Jewish and therefore I was not Jewish wasn't so interesting until now... when we were trying to build a Jewish home.
So here I was, starting to keep kosher, go to synagogue, observing the holidays, and I wasn't even Jewish! Of course I could take care of that by simply converting. On the other hand, it also gave me an opportunity to ask myself what was I really doing and why. I think that is an important thing for anyone to do, but we (I) don't; or, at least, didn't. Actually this was only the first time that I had to confront my motivations, and it wouldn't be the last (more about that later).
I'd love to say that this pushed me to really consider my motivations and look deeply into my beliefs... but it didn't. I don't mean to say that I didn't think about it. I had a few weeks of thinking that this was kind of cool. I discussed with friends the sort of surrealism of the situation -- "knowing" I was Jewish but having the opportunity to choose to be Jewish. Going through different arguments about why I should or shouldn't do it; but, in truth, there was never any question. Through it all there was no doubt in my mind that I would do it. The sky didn't open, no chorus of angels, nothing but the fact that I knew I was Jewish. Of course I intended to go through with the conversion.
Now all I had to do was convince the Reform Jewish Rabbi to let me convert. What was the problem? Here is someone who wants to make a real commitment and the Rabbi is balking? Of course, because his religion -- the Reform Jewish Religion -- had declared that Judaism can also be transmitted through the father (see, for example, Reform Movement's Resolution on Patrilineal Descent). I was cirucmcised, had had a Bar Mitzvah, and attended synagogue regularly... nothing else needed be done. So the conservative cantor and a few other knowledgeable laymen and I all argued with him. In the end, the Rabbi did not participate in the conversion, but did officiate at the ensuing marriage.
By the way, this was not the last time I would have to argue with a Rabbi to allow me to convert. More on that later; but first... my first conversion.
We also learned how to make a Jewish home by spending times with Jews in their homes... especially Shabbos and holidays. One of those Friday nights out (we drove on Shabbos in those days) while discussing our family history, I mentioned that my mother had had a conversion (Reform) when I was six. "So your mother wasn't Jewish when you were born?", my host asked. "Right.", I said. "So then, you aren't Jewish.", my host said. "Oh... right.", I responded.
I had known somewhere in the back of my mind that "Jewishness" goes through the mother; I had just never applied that idea to myself. So agreeing that I wasn't Jewish wasn't so much expressing a new idea as it was simply acknowledging long known but unexplored truth. Like saying the american flag has thirteen red and white stripes. True but relatively uninteresting until you want to make a flag and can't remember whether the top stripe is red or white (it's red). The fact that my mother wasn't Jewish and therefore I was not Jewish wasn't so interesting until now... when we were trying to build a Jewish home.
So here I was, starting to keep kosher, go to synagogue, observing the holidays, and I wasn't even Jewish! Of course I could take care of that by simply converting. On the other hand, it also gave me an opportunity to ask myself what was I really doing and why. I think that is an important thing for anyone to do, but we (I) don't; or, at least, didn't. Actually this was only the first time that I had to confront my motivations, and it wouldn't be the last (more about that later).
I'd love to say that this pushed me to really consider my motivations and look deeply into my beliefs... but it didn't. I don't mean to say that I didn't think about it. I had a few weeks of thinking that this was kind of cool. I discussed with friends the sort of surrealism of the situation -- "knowing" I was Jewish but having the opportunity to choose to be Jewish. Going through different arguments about why I should or shouldn't do it; but, in truth, there was never any question. Through it all there was no doubt in my mind that I would do it. The sky didn't open, no chorus of angels, nothing but the fact that I knew I was Jewish. Of course I intended to go through with the conversion.
Now all I had to do was convince the Reform Jewish Rabbi to let me convert. What was the problem? Here is someone who wants to make a real commitment and the Rabbi is balking? Of course, because his religion -- the Reform Jewish Religion -- had declared that Judaism can also be transmitted through the father (see, for example, Reform Movement's Resolution on Patrilineal Descent). I was cirucmcised, had had a Bar Mitzvah, and attended synagogue regularly... nothing else needed be done. So the conservative cantor and a few other knowledgeable laymen and I all argued with him. In the end, the Rabbi did not participate in the conversion, but did officiate at the ensuing marriage.
By the way, this was not the last time I would have to argue with a Rabbi to allow me to convert. More on that later; but first... my first conversion.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
This is the place!
There is a memorial just outside of Salt Lake City called the "This is the Place" Monument. I thought, "Cool! They have a sense of humor about their religion." Thus began my education about living in Utah. They were serious. Brigham Young had woken up from a fever long enough to say the very deeply inspiring and wise words (note sarcasm), "This is the place"... and they had memorialized! They didn't even try to make it sound better. Good grief. Thus began my education about religion outside of California. Namely, some people honestly took their religious beliefs seriously! I was shocked. I'd grown up in California... you could be different religions and it was no more important that wearing different styles or enjoying different cuisine. But here, in Salt Lake City, people actually took their beliefs seriously. In fact, everyone took their beliefs and/or non-beliefs seriously. Religion was so "in your face" that no one could be neutral. Of course, that made Salt Lake City the most perfect place in the world for this next stage in spiritual growth.
This is probably an appropriate juncture to discuss types of growth. There is growth that comes from quantitative changes and growth that comes from qualitative changes. Perhaps more simply put: there is change of attitude and there is learning more. I have found that qualitative (attitudinal) changes are abrupt, but don't lead immediately to changes in behavior. The changes in behavior come as one learns more within the new frame of reference. The Union Hagadah had given me a new perspective, now I needed information.
Salt Lake City had a small but very active Jewish community. There were compromises all over the place because it was worth sticking together just because we were so outnumbered. There was one synagogue -- Reform services Friday night, Conservative on Saturday morning, and a more-or-less orthodox minyan on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays. (It was called Kol Ami -- meant to be with a "chaf", meaning "All my people" but somehow got started with a "kuf", meaning "The Voice of My People"... oh well.) To further accommodate, we had a Reform rabbi and Conservative cantor. We also had two kosher kitchens and the congregation paid shipping on kosher meat ordered through the synagogue. Really very cool that it all worked together. There was some grumbling ("why should be pay their food bill"), but it honestly worked very well.
So we started going Friday nights and Saturday mornings. Also, I went to the Sunday, Monday, and Thursday minyan. Those weekday minyanim were most older business men, some retired, so they went out to breakfast afterward; I was invited along and got to know that segment of the community. Because we were going every Friday night we got to know the younger, but very reform, couples. Saturday morning we yet another, somewhat more traditional crowd. Being in that mix allowed us to learn about all sorts of different views. We started going to adult education classes, we went out with friends on Friday night, and we went to Shabbos meals at different houses. We got an education that would have been hard to find anywhere else. No doubt, for where we were holding and what we needed... this was the place.
This is probably an appropriate juncture to discuss types of growth. There is growth that comes from quantitative changes and growth that comes from qualitative changes. Perhaps more simply put: there is change of attitude and there is learning more. I have found that qualitative (attitudinal) changes are abrupt, but don't lead immediately to changes in behavior. The changes in behavior come as one learns more within the new frame of reference. The Union Hagadah had given me a new perspective, now I needed information.
Salt Lake City had a small but very active Jewish community. There were compromises all over the place because it was worth sticking together just because we were so outnumbered. There was one synagogue -- Reform services Friday night, Conservative on Saturday morning, and a more-or-less orthodox minyan on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays. (It was called Kol Ami -- meant to be with a "chaf", meaning "All my people" but somehow got started with a "kuf", meaning "The Voice of My People"... oh well.) To further accommodate, we had a Reform rabbi and Conservative cantor. We also had two kosher kitchens and the congregation paid shipping on kosher meat ordered through the synagogue. Really very cool that it all worked together. There was some grumbling ("why should be pay their food bill"), but it honestly worked very well.
So we started going Friday nights and Saturday mornings. Also, I went to the Sunday, Monday, and Thursday minyan. Those weekday minyanim were most older business men, some retired, so they went out to breakfast afterward; I was invited along and got to know that segment of the community. Because we were going every Friday night we got to know the younger, but very reform, couples. Saturday morning we yet another, somewhat more traditional crowd. Being in that mix allowed us to learn about all sorts of different views. We started going to adult education classes, we went out with friends on Friday night, and we went to Shabbos meals at different houses. We got an education that would have been hard to find anywhere else. No doubt, for where we were holding and what we needed... this was the place.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Moving at different rates.
Since you have just seen one example and because you'll see a lot more, I wanted to emphasize that my wife, our children, our friends, and I did not progress at the same rate. While reading the last entry, my wife was pleased with the way our differences were portrayed and emphasized to me that the differences need to continue to be portrayed. That is also part of the journey.
It is very common for a married couple to move at different rates in their acceptance and embracing of new ideas and behaviors. Part of any good marriage is personal and mutual growth. I am sure that is obvious. What may be less obvious is the special challenge of religious growth -- especially in modern western civilization where everything *except* religion has value. All the more so "organized" religion. Moreover, Orthodox/Torah Judaism has a world view which is totally at odds with the prevailing culture.
So I will do my best to present how we handled those difference; both as encouragement and caution to others. Caution in that you may realize there are stumbling blocks you hadn't considered. Encouragement seeing that you are unlikely to handle things worse than I have and continue to :)
It is very common for a married couple to move at different rates in their acceptance and embracing of new ideas and behaviors. Part of any good marriage is personal and mutual growth. I am sure that is obvious. What may be less obvious is the special challenge of religious growth -- especially in modern western civilization where everything *except* religion has value. All the more so "organized" religion. Moreover, Orthodox/Torah Judaism has a world view which is totally at odds with the prevailing culture.
So I will do my best to present how we handled those difference; both as encouragement and caution to others. Caution in that you may realize there are stumbling blocks you hadn't considered. Encouragement seeing that you are unlikely to handle things worse than I have and continue to :)
Thursday, November 02, 2006
"I thought you were kidding."
This goes into the hall of fame for famous last words. This was when my wife first realized that what she thought of as my weird sense of humor might have a darker side. Here's what led up to that statement: We had just arrived in Salt Lake City and were moving into our apartment in married student housing. I was emptying out our ice chest to the refrigerator... and tossing out the cold cuts we had brought for our two day drive across Nevada and Utah from South Lake Tahoe. "What are you doing?", she asked me; a bit incredulous. "We decided to start keeping kosher when we got to Salt Lake City, remember?" "I thought you were kidding."
Ok... let me fill in a few details of how we went from that first seder to Salt Lake City. (Salt Lake City?!? UTAH??? Uh.... yes.)
After that seder I knew I was not Reform, but I didn't know what I yes was. I figured I must be Conservative. Truth be told, I had leanings in that direction anyway. The synagogue we attended for my bar mitzvah was Conservative with an Orthodox(ish) Rabbi. My brother and I were often the only ones there under 80 (or so it seemed to us) and we got a lot of very positive attention. Also, I had taken some Hebrew as an undergraduate and the teacher was the wife of the Conservative rabbi in Sacramento (about 30 minutes or so from us). Alas, there was a problem... we were close to our families. We ate dinner at my in-laws nearly every Sunday and my Dad was only a couple of hours away, so we thought it would be a bit much if we all of the sudden said we couldn't eat at their houses anymore.
That was it for a the next year or so. I was finishing my masters and decided that I wanted to do research in General Relativity, so I needed to find a new graduate school. I had been at UC Davis for about four years anyway and it was time to move on (migrant scientist, you know). There weren't too many places that did the kind of research I wanted, so the choices were limited. At the end of the day it turned out that the program best suited to us (good advisor, student housing available, support at a TA) was University of Utah in Salt Lake City, Utah. I also found out that there was a synagogue there that had a Reform rabbi and a Conservative cantor; Reform services Friday night and Conservative Saturday morning. Perfect! I suggested to my wife that we should try keeping kosher when we moved. She said that sounded fine, or "ok" or something like that.
So we packed up our one bedroom apartment and headed east to Utah. We actually spent a week or so at Lake Tahoe for a mini-vacation and to say good-bye to my dad. Then we got into our VW Rabbit and made the two day trip to our new home. We arrived to Salt Lake City in the early afternoon, found the university, checked in at the physics department, and got directions to married student housing. We were pretty exhausted when we finally got into our little one bedroom, basement apartment with cinder block walls. My wife was *not* impressed by the place, but we were only here for graduate school and we could bear it. We unpacked the car and I started emptying out our ice chest to the refrigerator... and tossing out the cold cuts we had brought for our two day drive across Nevada and Utah from South Lake Tahoe. "What are you doing?", she asked me; a bit incredulous. "We decided to start keeping kosher when we got to Salt Lake City, remember?" "I thought you were kidding."
Ok... let me fill in a few details of how we went from that first seder to Salt Lake City. (Salt Lake City?!? UTAH??? Uh.... yes.)
After that seder I knew I was not Reform, but I didn't know what I yes was. I figured I must be Conservative. Truth be told, I had leanings in that direction anyway. The synagogue we attended for my bar mitzvah was Conservative with an Orthodox(ish) Rabbi. My brother and I were often the only ones there under 80 (or so it seemed to us) and we got a lot of very positive attention. Also, I had taken some Hebrew as an undergraduate and the teacher was the wife of the Conservative rabbi in Sacramento (about 30 minutes or so from us). Alas, there was a problem... we were close to our families. We ate dinner at my in-laws nearly every Sunday and my Dad was only a couple of hours away, so we thought it would be a bit much if we all of the sudden said we couldn't eat at their houses anymore.
That was it for a the next year or so. I was finishing my masters and decided that I wanted to do research in General Relativity, so I needed to find a new graduate school. I had been at UC Davis for about four years anyway and it was time to move on (migrant scientist, you know). There weren't too many places that did the kind of research I wanted, so the choices were limited. At the end of the day it turned out that the program best suited to us (good advisor, student housing available, support at a TA) was University of Utah in Salt Lake City, Utah. I also found out that there was a synagogue there that had a Reform rabbi and a Conservative cantor; Reform services Friday night and Conservative Saturday morning. Perfect! I suggested to my wife that we should try keeping kosher when we moved. She said that sounded fine, or "ok" or something like that.
So we packed up our one bedroom apartment and headed east to Utah. We actually spent a week or so at Lake Tahoe for a mini-vacation and to say good-bye to my dad. Then we got into our VW Rabbit and made the two day trip to our new home. We arrived to Salt Lake City in the early afternoon, found the university, checked in at the physics department, and got directions to married student housing. We were pretty exhausted when we finally got into our little one bedroom, basement apartment with cinder block walls. My wife was *not* impressed by the place, but we were only here for graduate school and we could bear it. We unpacked the car and I started emptying out our ice chest to the refrigerator... and tossing out the cold cuts we had brought for our two day drive across Nevada and Utah from South Lake Tahoe. "What are you doing?", she asked me; a bit incredulous. "We decided to start keeping kosher when we got to Salt Lake City, remember?" "I thought you were kidding."
Monday, October 30, 2006
"There were plagues! I know there were plagues!"
Our first seder after getting married. One bedroom apartment in married student housing, us and four guests: a Catholic friend from grad school and his fiance (also Catholic, of course), and a Jewish friend with his "significant other" (not Jewish, of course). We got the good hard-cover Union haggadas and had just finished the whole thing. Said all the text, sang all the songs (as best as we could...), and gotten all the way to the back hard cover. No plagues. No allusion to plagues. We had a JPS bible that my wife had gotten for her Bat Mitzvah. I found my way to the book of Exodus, then to the the Moses meeting with Pharoh. "Yes! Look! Plagues. I knew there were plagues."
In retrospect, I realize that that was the beginning for me; the first step on the journey that let to where I am today.
I'd grown up nominally reform. That is, at home we lit chanuka candles, didn't have a christmas tree. At my (paternal) grandparents house we had a passover seder. We went to sunday school. We went to a reform temple till I was about 10, then our family had some sort of falling out with the rabbi there and so we switched to a conservative temple till I was 14. We then moved to Lake Tahoe and my formal (such as it was) religious affiliation with temples ended. We still lit chanuka candles at home, of course; and more than "of course", we did not ever, ever, had a christmas tree. We were Jewish, after all! We also celebrated Thanksgiving and Halloween and July 4 and whatnot. And we went to my mother's family to celebrate Christmas (more about that later...).
So what, you are wondering, was the big deal about no plagues? I certainly didn't actually believe that the plagues happened; or any other bible stories for that matter. Oh, surely something happened or some things happened; but the stories as we had them recorded were certainly fabrications built on some long lost true event. So what, you are still wondering, was the big deal.
As I said, I had rarely attended a Jewish service since moving to Lake Tahoe. Until, that is, I met my wife. She was very religious. She and her mother went to Temple every friday night. She ate matzah on passover, heard the shofar on Rosh HaShanna, fasted on Yom Kippur, and had a seder every single year. So I started going with her to friday night services, and it brought back some of those warm feelings I had had growing up and going to temple. Moreover, getting married meant starting a family at some point, and I felt is was important that children have a strong foundation of good values. I used to say that just like a building needs a good foundation, we all need a good foundation of values. Just like it doesn't matter too much which particular foundation you have as long as it is strong and firm; so too, it doesn't matter too much what religion/value system you subscribe to, as long as it is strong and firm.
But Reform Judaism had done the unforgivable; they had openly and blatantly lied; seemingly without compunction. If there is an elephant in your living room, you don't just ignore it! If you don't like that plagues, you can try to explain that they are allegorical, or that they were a step toward away from paganism that we don't need anymore, or any of dozens of other ways they have been dealt with by the non-Orthodox communities. But you don't simply pretend that they are irrelevant to Jewish history and identity! This was not a philosophy or foundation of belief system that you could even start with.
I think I realized at the time that I was rejecting Reform Judaism. I did not, however, appreciate that my thinking about that haggadah and the blatant dishonesty it revealed about Refom Judasim would eventually leave me with no choice but to embrace Orthodox Judaism!
In retrospect, I realize that that was the beginning for me; the first step on the journey that let to where I am today.
I'd grown up nominally reform. That is, at home we lit chanuka candles, didn't have a christmas tree. At my (paternal) grandparents house we had a passover seder. We went to sunday school. We went to a reform temple till I was about 10, then our family had some sort of falling out with the rabbi there and so we switched to a conservative temple till I was 14. We then moved to Lake Tahoe and my formal (such as it was) religious affiliation with temples ended. We still lit chanuka candles at home, of course; and more than "of course", we did not ever, ever, had a christmas tree. We were Jewish, after all! We also celebrated Thanksgiving and Halloween and July 4 and whatnot. And we went to my mother's family to celebrate Christmas (more about that later...).
So what, you are wondering, was the big deal about no plagues? I certainly didn't actually believe that the plagues happened; or any other bible stories for that matter. Oh, surely something happened or some things happened; but the stories as we had them recorded were certainly fabrications built on some long lost true event. So what, you are still wondering, was the big deal.
As I said, I had rarely attended a Jewish service since moving to Lake Tahoe. Until, that is, I met my wife. She was very religious. She and her mother went to Temple every friday night. She ate matzah on passover, heard the shofar on Rosh HaShanna, fasted on Yom Kippur, and had a seder every single year. So I started going with her to friday night services, and it brought back some of those warm feelings I had had growing up and going to temple. Moreover, getting married meant starting a family at some point, and I felt is was important that children have a strong foundation of good values. I used to say that just like a building needs a good foundation, we all need a good foundation of values. Just like it doesn't matter too much which particular foundation you have as long as it is strong and firm; so too, it doesn't matter too much what religion/value system you subscribe to, as long as it is strong and firm.
But Reform Judaism had done the unforgivable; they had openly and blatantly lied; seemingly without compunction. If there is an elephant in your living room, you don't just ignore it! If you don't like that plagues, you can try to explain that they are allegorical, or that they were a step toward away from paganism that we don't need anymore, or any of dozens of other ways they have been dealt with by the non-Orthodox communities. But you don't simply pretend that they are irrelevant to Jewish history and identity! This was not a philosophy or foundation of belief system that you could even start with.
I think I realized at the time that I was rejecting Reform Judaism. I did not, however, appreciate that my thinking about that haggadah and the blatant dishonesty it revealed about Refom Judasim would eventually leave me with no choice but to embrace Orthodox Judaism!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
All beginnings are difficult.
So say our sages. What is the difference between this and "the longest journey starts with a single step"? The problem with that statement is that small journeys, even accidental journeys also start with a single step. When our sages tell us that "all beginnings are difficult"... they also mean to tell us that if it is not difficult, then it is not a beginning. This should not be disheartening... rather encouraging; for when you want to really start something there are always road blocks. Road blocks should not, therefore, make you feel like "this is a sign that I shouldn't be doing this." Exactly the opposite, those road blocks may indeed be a sign... a sign that you are embarking on something important and real.
It is with this in mind that I am beginning to write how I went from agnostic/atheist scientist to ultra-orthodox (jewish) scientist. It didn't happen over night.... more like 30 years and counting. There were times of big changes in a short period of time and there were long stretches when nothing much changed. Behaviours can change quickly, attitudes take longer... much, much longer. Part of the problem is knowing what attitudes need changing and which are fine the way they are. Moreover, sometimes you know a change should be made, but it is scary: If I do this, what next? But if I don't do this, what I am doing... what does this all mean? I'll try to add how I was feeling and how I think my loved ones were feeling as I review and retell the events.
On final note: a scientist, to my way of thinking, is someone who observes reality and adjusts his outlook to match that reality. Adjusting outlook is hard work, not so comfortable, and doesn't feel necessary for living. On the other hand, it may be (I think it definitely is) the most important and rewarding endeavor of one's (short) stay in this world. So I am a scientist; and Truth wins out over beauty every time.
It is with this in mind that I am beginning to write how I went from agnostic/atheist scientist to ultra-orthodox (jewish) scientist. It didn't happen over night.... more like 30 years and counting. There were times of big changes in a short period of time and there were long stretches when nothing much changed. Behaviours can change quickly, attitudes take longer... much, much longer. Part of the problem is knowing what attitudes need changing and which are fine the way they are. Moreover, sometimes you know a change should be made, but it is scary: If I do this, what next? But if I don't do this, what I am doing... what does this all mean? I'll try to add how I was feeling and how I think my loved ones were feeling as I review and retell the events.
On final note: a scientist, to my way of thinking, is someone who observes reality and adjusts his outlook to match that reality. Adjusting outlook is hard work, not so comfortable, and doesn't feel necessary for living. On the other hand, it may be (I think it definitely is) the most important and rewarding endeavor of one's (short) stay in this world. So I am a scientist; and Truth wins out over beauty every time.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Accidents...
A boy here in Chicago a few days ago, a boy in Silver Spring yesterday. Crossing the street. It has to happen thousands and thousands of times a day. But these two boys didn't make it. They are in serious condition, and we all hope for a complete recovery. Regardless of the outcome, however, how will those drivers face themselves? Can they really be blamed? Busy streets, big cars... it is a recipe for disaster and we should really be thankful whenever we *do* make it across in one piece. But events of this type do and should remind us that ultimately, we are not in charge. There are thousands of factors that are not in our control. HaShem runs the world.
What about, though, when someone intends to damage us? Our attitude, says the Chovos Levavos, should really be the same. The Chovos Levavos says in Sha'ar haBitachon (The Gate of Trust) that we need to know that nothing, no person and no thing, can hurt us or help us even the smallest amount unless with the permission of HaShem. Sounds nice, but it certainly flies in the face of our every day experience. People hurt us all the time, and sometimes even with real intention to damage us, or our reputation, or even just to make our loved ones think less of us. People also help us, they encourage us, they can help monetarily; they can do us favors of all sorts So how in the world are we to accept and then live up to this Chovos Halavos?
The Chovos Levavos explains as follows: if HaShem decides that we deserve a punch in the nose, we are going to get a punch in the nose. If HaShem decides we are going to overcome a difficult trial, we are going to overcome that trial. And it will happen precisely at the moment and in the circumstances that are also decreed. And it will be appropriate for all of this who have to deal with it -- family, friends, doctors, neighbors, etc. The only thing that is left is to choose a shaliach (messenger) to carry out HaShem's decree. The messenger is chosen, says the Chovos Levavos, based on his desires. If someone wants to tell lashon hara, wants to damage someone in particular, or just wants to be reckless... then HaShem assigns him the job. If someone is loving and caring in general, or wants to help someone out with a job or other support, then he will be chosen for that job.
It comes out, then, that the one who helps or damages us is nothing but a tool in HaShem's hand. We really should not get angry, therefore, if someone hurts us. Of course, if someone helps us, we should thank them, just like one thanks a waiter who is just doing his job. But when someone hurts us? If anything we *should* also thank him, since the damage is a kapara for us. Aye... he wanted to hurt us? Ok... that is his problem. If we are up to it, we should really do anything we can to help them; after all, they were chosen for a very unpleasant task, and our hearts should go out to them.
The real bottom line: we should all strive to be to be kind of people that HaShem will choose for the pleasant jobs.
A boy here in Chicago a few days ago, a boy in Silver Spring yesterday. Crossing the street. It has to happen thousands and thousands of times a day. But these two boys didn't make it. They are in serious condition, and we all hope for a complete recovery. Regardless of the outcome, however, how will those drivers face themselves? Can they really be blamed? Busy streets, big cars... it is a recipe for disaster and we should really be thankful whenever we *do* make it across in one piece. But events of this type do and should remind us that ultimately, we are not in charge. There are thousands of factors that are not in our control. HaShem runs the world.
What about, though, when someone intends to damage us? Our attitude, says the Chovos Levavos, should really be the same. The Chovos Levavos says in Sha'ar haBitachon (The Gate of Trust) that we need to know that nothing, no person and no thing, can hurt us or help us even the smallest amount unless with the permission of HaShem. Sounds nice, but it certainly flies in the face of our every day experience. People hurt us all the time, and sometimes even with real intention to damage us, or our reputation, or even just to make our loved ones think less of us. People also help us, they encourage us, they can help monetarily; they can do us favors of all sorts So how in the world are we to accept and then live up to this Chovos Halavos?
The Chovos Levavos explains as follows: if HaShem decides that we deserve a punch in the nose, we are going to get a punch in the nose. If HaShem decides we are going to overcome a difficult trial, we are going to overcome that trial. And it will happen precisely at the moment and in the circumstances that are also decreed. And it will be appropriate for all of this who have to deal with it -- family, friends, doctors, neighbors, etc. The only thing that is left is to choose a shaliach (messenger) to carry out HaShem's decree. The messenger is chosen, says the Chovos Levavos, based on his desires. If someone wants to tell lashon hara, wants to damage someone in particular, or just wants to be reckless... then HaShem assigns him the job. If someone is loving and caring in general, or wants to help someone out with a job or other support, then he will be chosen for that job.
It comes out, then, that the one who helps or damages us is nothing but a tool in HaShem's hand. We really should not get angry, therefore, if someone hurts us. Of course, if someone helps us, we should thank them, just like one thanks a waiter who is just doing his job. But when someone hurts us? If anything we *should* also thank him, since the damage is a kapara for us. Aye... he wanted to hurt us? Ok... that is his problem. If we are up to it, we should really do anything we can to help them; after all, they were chosen for a very unpleasant task, and our hearts should go out to them.
The real bottom line: we should all strive to be to be kind of people that HaShem will choose for the pleasant jobs.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Thank you, the living and enduring King. Who has, in His great mercy, returned my soul to me. You have a lot of faith in me.
That is how a Jew start his waking hours. Making a declaration that waking up was a gift and we have gratitude for another day of life. But that is not the end of the declaration; we also acknowledge that we have things to do, and G-d has faith in us.
I awoke earlier than usual this morning -- 3:00AM. I usually get up early. I try the get up before 4:00AM and I have a series of alarms to prod me. My poor wife... I almost always catch the first alarm at 3:45AM on my watch, and remember to disable the 4:00AM alarm on my alarm clock, and and downstairs before the 4:10AM alarm on my palm pilot starts beeping. But some mornings I don't...
In any case, this morning I awoke at 3:00AM and tried to turn over to sleep another 45 minutes or so. No use; so I finally got up around 3:30, figuring I might as well use the extra time (since I wasn't getting any more rest anyway). I think I was brusing my teeth when I realized the significance of my disturbed sleep. Mom had passed away seven days ago; just at 3:00AM this morning. She left this world a week ago, and I awoke this morning... to a new day, still (apparently) with jobs to do.
I got to bais medrash (a large room dedicated to torah learning and prayer), and went to make the coffee. Oops... kitchen locked, erev Pesach... ok, lets see if I can learn without my morning coffee. My first chavrusa (study partner) arrives and we start learning about the trait of mercy. Real mercy sometimes requires being stern... real mercy is to be concerned about the person's soul. Sometimes the needs of the body have to take a back seat to the needs of the soul. Sometimes we need to put our smile aside to help a friend who is not going on the straight path. And sometimes that friend is ourself.
Next is learning gemara with my next chavrusa. Then davening followed by a special treat -- the daf yomi group is making a siyum on masechta eruvin. Next a haircut in honor of the upcoming holiday. On the spur of the moment I decided to go to the mikveh before going home. So now it is 8:00AM and I have learned torah, prayed, fulfilled the precept of loving HaShem by taking a haircut in honor of this great holiday of Pesach that He has given us, and gone to the mikveh for a physical and spiritual purification. Not a bad way to start the day!
One thing about this blog... it rarely goes where I expect it to. Last week I said good bye to Mom for the last time. I can't tell her I love her anymore. And, sadly, I didn't tell her enough when she was in this world. And, worse, I didn't always act toward her as lovingly as I should have. If you love someone, tell them. Let them know... you might be surprised how much love there there is around you. You might be surprised how much difference your love can make to someone else.
I love you, Mom. Thank you for waking me up.
That is how a Jew start his waking hours. Making a declaration that waking up was a gift and we have gratitude for another day of life. But that is not the end of the declaration; we also acknowledge that we have things to do, and G-d has faith in us.
I awoke earlier than usual this morning -- 3:00AM. I usually get up early. I try the get up before 4:00AM and I have a series of alarms to prod me. My poor wife... I almost always catch the first alarm at 3:45AM on my watch, and remember to disable the 4:00AM alarm on my alarm clock, and and downstairs before the 4:10AM alarm on my palm pilot starts beeping. But some mornings I don't...
In any case, this morning I awoke at 3:00AM and tried to turn over to sleep another 45 minutes or so. No use; so I finally got up around 3:30, figuring I might as well use the extra time (since I wasn't getting any more rest anyway). I think I was brusing my teeth when I realized the significance of my disturbed sleep. Mom had passed away seven days ago; just at 3:00AM this morning. She left this world a week ago, and I awoke this morning... to a new day, still (apparently) with jobs to do.
I got to bais medrash (a large room dedicated to torah learning and prayer), and went to make the coffee. Oops... kitchen locked, erev Pesach... ok, lets see if I can learn without my morning coffee. My first chavrusa (study partner) arrives and we start learning about the trait of mercy. Real mercy sometimes requires being stern... real mercy is to be concerned about the person's soul. Sometimes the needs of the body have to take a back seat to the needs of the soul. Sometimes we need to put our smile aside to help a friend who is not going on the straight path. And sometimes that friend is ourself.
Next is learning gemara with my next chavrusa. Then davening followed by a special treat -- the daf yomi group is making a siyum on masechta eruvin. Next a haircut in honor of the upcoming holiday. On the spur of the moment I decided to go to the mikveh before going home. So now it is 8:00AM and I have learned torah, prayed, fulfilled the precept of loving HaShem by taking a haircut in honor of this great holiday of Pesach that He has given us, and gone to the mikveh for a physical and spiritual purification. Not a bad way to start the day!
One thing about this blog... it rarely goes where I expect it to. Last week I said good bye to Mom for the last time. I can't tell her I love her anymore. And, sadly, I didn't tell her enough when she was in this world. And, worse, I didn't always act toward her as lovingly as I should have. If you love someone, tell them. Let them know... you might be surprised how much love there there is around you. You might be surprised how much difference your love can make to someone else.
I love you, Mom. Thank you for waking me up.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Almost a week.
It has been nearly a week. The surreality (is that a word?) of being is stating to wear off. I am very glad I started this writing. I couldn't write for a day or so after my mother's passing. The next day my wife encouraged (so to speak) me to stay home. I spent a lot of time writing that day. As I felt the tears well up, my natural reaction was to stifle it; but I forced myself to let the tears and weeping come. When I talked to others -- on the phone or in person -- I was able (with effort) to maintain myself. Alone I could let the feelings come, and the writing seemed to open doors. I am not cried out... but I think I can now allow myself that luxury when I need it.
At the same time I am planning a wedding. Well, to be honest, I am consutling occaisionally on the planning of my daughter's upcoming wedding. And, oh yes, Pesach is also coming. Trying to keep my head on work is verging on impossible. I am choosing tasks that are more mechanical... require less creative thought.
One more interesting turn... I am talking more with my extended family more. This morning I accidently called my niece. I apologized for waking her, as it was only 5:30AM for her. "Don't worry... the sun is almost up anyway", she joked. We ended up talking for nearly 20 minutes. Conversation that was much more than just "hi, how are you". My sister and I have exchanged more email in the last week than in the previous two decades. Mom constantly wished for her children to be closer, and we all had excuses why we weren't. We let the excuses and past hurts die with Mom.
It has been nearly a week. The surreality (is that a word?) of being is stating to wear off. I am very glad I started this writing. I couldn't write for a day or so after my mother's passing. The next day my wife encouraged (so to speak) me to stay home. I spent a lot of time writing that day. As I felt the tears well up, my natural reaction was to stifle it; but I forced myself to let the tears and weeping come. When I talked to others -- on the phone or in person -- I was able (with effort) to maintain myself. Alone I could let the feelings come, and the writing seemed to open doors. I am not cried out... but I think I can now allow myself that luxury when I need it.
At the same time I am planning a wedding. Well, to be honest, I am consutling occaisionally on the planning of my daughter's upcoming wedding. And, oh yes, Pesach is also coming. Trying to keep my head on work is verging on impossible. I am choosing tasks that are more mechanical... require less creative thought.
One more interesting turn... I am talking more with my extended family more. This morning I accidently called my niece. I apologized for waking her, as it was only 5:30AM for her. "Don't worry... the sun is almost up anyway", she joked. We ended up talking for nearly 20 minutes. Conversation that was much more than just "hi, how are you". My sister and I have exchanged more email in the last week than in the previous two decades. Mom constantly wished for her children to be closer, and we all had excuses why we weren't. We let the excuses and past hurts die with Mom.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Please no more, "well, the main thing is to make her comfortable".
This post is very politically incorrect; you have been warned. I really didn't want to hear one more time, "the main thing is to keep her comfortable". Comfort in this world is *not* the main thing; it is not even a goal. Comfort is sometimes a means to a desired goal, but sometimes being uncomfortable is the appropriate means. In fact, sometimes the discomfort itself *is* the only way to get where you want to go. When is that? When you want to grow, become better, stronger, more than you were before. That effort can never be anything but uncomfortable.
Therefore, my conclusion is that the drive for comfort is motivated by an underlying hypothesis that this particular life is no longer worth living. I reject that hypothesis without reservation. No moment of life, not breath, is ever a waste; it is always worth it. Life is not always comfortable; in fact, it rarely is. How dare hospice or anyone else tell me that my mother's life is no longer worth living.
Moreover, how do they know that constant doses of morphine is making anyone comfortable anyway? Because the body is not moving and no groans are heard? That "goal" can be achieved with duct tape and cotton; but few would agree with that treatment of a sick person. You'll tell me we can study brain wave activity, or ask people who have awakened from anesthesia. I assert that line of reasoning is hopelessly flawed. Brain waves? When they can tell me what the person is thinking, feeling, or dreaming by looking at those squiggles, then maybe I'll pay attention. Reports by patients who have awakened from anesthesia? Who knows if the waking process produces a retrograde amnesia (as it seems to).
I am not saying that morphine doesn't make the patient comfortable... I am only saying I don't know and neither does hospice nor anyone else. Lets just stop being so confident that you understand the dying process or what is going on in the dying person's mind. My sister and I were holding Mom's hands when she died. You can't tell either one of us it was a mechanical, physical process. There was a decided change slightly before the body died, and it wasn't physical at all. One thing I do know; I wish I could spend more time with Mom.
This post is very politically incorrect; you have been warned. I really didn't want to hear one more time, "the main thing is to keep her comfortable". Comfort in this world is *not* the main thing; it is not even a goal. Comfort is sometimes a means to a desired goal, but sometimes being uncomfortable is the appropriate means. In fact, sometimes the discomfort itself *is* the only way to get where you want to go. When is that? When you want to grow, become better, stronger, more than you were before. That effort can never be anything but uncomfortable.
Therefore, my conclusion is that the drive for comfort is motivated by an underlying hypothesis that this particular life is no longer worth living. I reject that hypothesis without reservation. No moment of life, not breath, is ever a waste; it is always worth it. Life is not always comfortable; in fact, it rarely is. How dare hospice or anyone else tell me that my mother's life is no longer worth living.
Moreover, how do they know that constant doses of morphine is making anyone comfortable anyway? Because the body is not moving and no groans are heard? That "goal" can be achieved with duct tape and cotton; but few would agree with that treatment of a sick person. You'll tell me we can study brain wave activity, or ask people who have awakened from anesthesia. I assert that line of reasoning is hopelessly flawed. Brain waves? When they can tell me what the person is thinking, feeling, or dreaming by looking at those squiggles, then maybe I'll pay attention. Reports by patients who have awakened from anesthesia? Who knows if the waking process produces a retrograde amnesia (as it seems to).
I am not saying that morphine doesn't make the patient comfortable... I am only saying I don't know and neither does hospice nor anyone else. Lets just stop being so confident that you understand the dying process or what is going on in the dying person's mind. My sister and I were holding Mom's hands when she died. You can't tell either one of us it was a mechanical, physical process. There was a decided change slightly before the body died, and it wasn't physical at all. One thing I do know; I wish I could spend more time with Mom.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Life after death.
My sister grabbed my mother's lifeless body. I told her it was time to go. She wouldn't let go; "If I let go, it's going to be real!" I had told her earlier that the body nourishes the soul in this world like the placenta nourishes the baby in the womb. "It's a placenta... Mom let it go, now you need to." She reluctantly let go. "But she is still warm!" "We need to go." "But..."
My sister-in-law asked if my sister and I wanted a few minutes alone. We looked at her and said, "She is your mother just as much as ours; you are our sister." My brother had been called away, but he was with us on the phone. "I thought I was prepared.", he said, "I thought I had said my good-byes." We cried together on the phone. We had all thought we were prepared. But there is, apparently, no preparation for this. What we would give for her to take even one more labored breath. There is no way to describe this feeling... except that it is a feeling that defies description. There is no way to prepare for this, except to prepare to feel unprepared.
We had things to do. First was to call hospice to send a nurse to "make the pronouncement". We didn't want to leave my mother's body alone; the nurse's aid offered to stay with her. (We found out later she had been assigned specially and over-and-above the usual staffing to care for us and my mother.) I called hospice; she'd be over in about 45 minutes. We went to the kitchen/dining room area. I brought out a beer so we could toast "l'chaim" -- "to life". I told them that when the Torah describes the events after Sarah's death, it begins with the words, "This is the life of Sarah". We now needed to move from helping Mom through her transition to remembering and living up to her life.
I had a sudden thought, and I turned to my sister and sister-in-law and said, "I was not always the best son. I didn't always have patience, or speak to Mom respectfully. You weren't always the best daughter-in-law, were you? You weren't always such a good daughter, were you?" We all agreed that we had been lacking many times. "Good", I said, "now we have finished with that part of our mourning. We have admited our shortcomings and are sorry for them. Time to move on; to focus on the positive." I was fiddling with the faucet and all of the sudden a stream of water shot about 10 feet across the room, hitting the refrigerator. We all laughed hard.
The hospice nurse came, confirmed there was no heart beat. We called the mortuary to come pick her up. My brother, who had had power of attorney, had signed all the papers and made all the arrangements. Thank G-d, because none of us were in any shape to make decision; we were just moving and acting according to plan. The man arrived from the mortuary. My sister asked him if he would be gentle; he said he does this a lot, don't worry. Then she asked, "Can we move her to the gurney?" This was unexpected. He agreed. My sister and I worked together to move my mother's body to the gurney, cover it, and strap it down. That was it, the remains were taken.
My sister wanted to sleep in my mother's room, and the aids made up the bed for her with fresh linens. I went to my room and slept for a couple of hours, then got up to pray and finish packing. We had decided that thre would be no memorial service; we were all there was and we had spent the last few days together reminiscing. My niece and nephew took the day off. We drove to the airport together and talked about road trips we had taken with our respective families. We all felt closer than we had in years. Any past hurts forgotten -- unimportant.
The flight home was uneventful; but one noteworthy detail bears telling. I had changed my reservation at the last minute to stay an extra night when I saw that my mother had a little time left in this world. Of course the flight was practically full and I got a middle seat in the rear of the plane. When I checked in they asked me if I would like to move to an aisle. So I was moved from 22B to 12C. More than that, the only empty seat in the plane (I checked) was the middle seat between me and a young lady who didn't speak english. I needed to be alone for a while, and I was granted that.
I am home now. My family is being great. My friends are being great. We are planning a wedding. I wish I had a wise and powerful ending; but I don't. Maybe that is the point, this is the beginning of a new phase in the middle of my life.
My sister grabbed my mother's lifeless body. I told her it was time to go. She wouldn't let go; "If I let go, it's going to be real!" I had told her earlier that the body nourishes the soul in this world like the placenta nourishes the baby in the womb. "It's a placenta... Mom let it go, now you need to." She reluctantly let go. "But she is still warm!" "We need to go." "But..."
My sister-in-law asked if my sister and I wanted a few minutes alone. We looked at her and said, "She is your mother just as much as ours; you are our sister." My brother had been called away, but he was with us on the phone. "I thought I was prepared.", he said, "I thought I had said my good-byes." We cried together on the phone. We had all thought we were prepared. But there is, apparently, no preparation for this. What we would give for her to take even one more labored breath. There is no way to describe this feeling... except that it is a feeling that defies description. There is no way to prepare for this, except to prepare to feel unprepared.
We had things to do. First was to call hospice to send a nurse to "make the pronouncement". We didn't want to leave my mother's body alone; the nurse's aid offered to stay with her. (We found out later she had been assigned specially and over-and-above the usual staffing to care for us and my mother.) I called hospice; she'd be over in about 45 minutes. We went to the kitchen/dining room area. I brought out a beer so we could toast "l'chaim" -- "to life". I told them that when the Torah describes the events after Sarah's death, it begins with the words, "This is the life of Sarah". We now needed to move from helping Mom through her transition to remembering and living up to her life.
I had a sudden thought, and I turned to my sister and sister-in-law and said, "I was not always the best son. I didn't always have patience, or speak to Mom respectfully. You weren't always the best daughter-in-law, were you? You weren't always such a good daughter, were you?" We all agreed that we had been lacking many times. "Good", I said, "now we have finished with that part of our mourning. We have admited our shortcomings and are sorry for them. Time to move on; to focus on the positive." I was fiddling with the faucet and all of the sudden a stream of water shot about 10 feet across the room, hitting the refrigerator. We all laughed hard.
The hospice nurse came, confirmed there was no heart beat. We called the mortuary to come pick her up. My brother, who had had power of attorney, had signed all the papers and made all the arrangements. Thank G-d, because none of us were in any shape to make decision; we were just moving and acting according to plan. The man arrived from the mortuary. My sister asked him if he would be gentle; he said he does this a lot, don't worry. Then she asked, "Can we move her to the gurney?" This was unexpected. He agreed. My sister and I worked together to move my mother's body to the gurney, cover it, and strap it down. That was it, the remains were taken.
My sister wanted to sleep in my mother's room, and the aids made up the bed for her with fresh linens. I went to my room and slept for a couple of hours, then got up to pray and finish packing. We had decided that thre would be no memorial service; we were all there was and we had spent the last few days together reminiscing. My niece and nephew took the day off. We drove to the airport together and talked about road trips we had taken with our respective families. We all felt closer than we had in years. Any past hurts forgotten -- unimportant.
The flight home was uneventful; but one noteworthy detail bears telling. I had changed my reservation at the last minute to stay an extra night when I saw that my mother had a little time left in this world. Of course the flight was practically full and I got a middle seat in the rear of the plane. When I checked in they asked me if I would like to move to an aisle. So I was moved from 22B to 12C. More than that, the only empty seat in the plane (I checked) was the middle seat between me and a young lady who didn't speak english. I needed to be alone for a while, and I was granted that.
I am home now. My family is being great. My friends are being great. We are planning a wedding. I wish I had a wise and powerful ending; but I don't. Maybe that is the point, this is the beginning of a new phase in the middle of my life.
My Mother's Death
You may want to skip this; it is intentionally graphic. I am writing this because I think it would have helped me when we were going through that last few days and hours of my mother's life to have known what others had experienced and what to expect.
My mother had been difficult to get along with for years. It now turns out that a lot of the problems were caused by the many pain and psychiatric drugs she was taking. Several different doctors who were not talking to each other were all prescribing medicine/drugs for her. My brother and his wife (to whom I owe a debt of gratitude I can never hope to repay for the care they gave our mother the last few years) finally got her into a geriatric psychiatric hospital, Senior Bridges. After spending almost two weeks there (a place she referred to as "prison") she came out with her medications cut in half and was a new person. I wish people wouldn't be so squeamish about the title and just get the needed help for their loved ones, whatever it may be.
Unfortunately, it appears that the ups and downs of her life, the drugs, the pain, and G-d knows what else was just too much. The best description of her condition I have heard is simply "failure to thrive". Nothing could be found to be medically wrong with her... her body was just shutting down and dying. Hospice was actually unsure of whether or not to take Mom because they couldn't put down a diagnosis. I was originally upset with my brother... how could he just sign a death warrant like that? Ultimately, though, they did take her and managed her care the last couple of weeks of her life. Was it the right decision? Could we have extended her life? I don't know.... I can't say it was right or wrong... but that is irrelevent now.
I arrived on Friday morning and told me brother that maybe we could get Mom out to the mall as I could use a pair of pants. He said that would be great, but it is really hard to get her out. We arrived and I spoke to Mom for just a few minutes. It turns out that was her last conversation in this world. A few times she tried to express a thought, but after a couple of words came out... it was gone. Someone brought a tiny little puppy by. Mom loved dogs and she petted it; the puppy was practicaly jumping out of the basket to get to her. (Later one of the aids would remind us of that... and add that the puppy had been really shy before that.) She closed her eyes and went to sleep. After a few hours my brother remarked that with this good nap, she might be really rested and be able to get around a little more the next day. My sister-in-law looked at him and said, "You're swimming in that river again; Duh Nile." That became a catch phrase for us all over the next few days.
"Maybe I better call our sister", my brother decided later Friday night. I had mixed feelings about that. I knew he should, but my sister and I had not spoken in years and I was afraid of confrontation. He called her, she said she would be up late Saturday afternoon. She walked in, and the most amazing thing occured... we were both so focussed on Mom that we rose above ourselves. I am pretty sure Mom hung on as long as she did to enjoy her children all together. She was acheiving something with her dying that she had not been able to have for years. I am sorry, Mom... we thought we had such good reasons for our difference. And the truth is, we did and we do; but they were not good enough. I wish we could have given that to Mom before she died, I am thankful we were able to give it to her now.
Sunday, Monday, and most of Tuesday continued pretty much status quo. It became apparent to us that Mom was not going to awaken in this world. We got used to the idea slowly... started talking about it. We never talked about that in front of her. Even though she never showed the slightest response, we knew she could hear and didn't want to cause her any undue distress. We tried shifting her to a more comfortable position a couple of times. That was almost always a mistake; we were "treated" to pitiful groans of pain. We realized we were trying to ease our discomfort, not Mom's; so we stopped all adjustments to her position except absolutely required -- either to help her retain her pain medication under her tongue or to change her. The bed sores were also getting worse; her skin was paper thin.
Mom was mostly breathing though her mouth. The one thing we could do that seemed to give her some comfort was give her a little liquid on a sponge for her to suck on. That was really the only reaction we got during those last days. We joked with her, "Mom! Give it back so we can give you more." We took turns, and I am sure Mom appreciated her children working together and getting along.
Here is a terrible admission... we were getting bored a lot of the time. I have heard that battle is like that; long periods of boredom punctuated with moments of terror. That pretty much describes those three days. We put on Moms's favorite channel, the cooking channel. Now I know name about Rachael Ray and sugar sculpture contests and other things I don't care about. We took Mom's pulse and blood pressure, we checked her temperature. We read the little blue pamphlet that hospice had given us. We had several false alarms. Her pulse went up to 130 and repirations to 27; then back down to 100 and 20. Her fever went up to 103; then back down to normal.
And a worse admission... we each secretly wondered why she was hanging on so long. We "gave her permission to leave", we asked forgiveness and gave forgiveness. But every time there was a hesitation in her breathing, we felt terror and panic... and guilt. How could we be trying to hasten her leaving? How dare we feel bored, with our mother there dying? I am sure these feelings are normal; and G-d forgive me for feeling them.
About 4:00PM on Tuesday afternoon, Mom started making a horrible gurgling sound. I had heard of "death rattle", and I looked it up. Amazingly, the residence had wireless internet, I had been able to do some work, email, and blogging right from her bedside. The information I found said that it was due to phlegm build up in the throat and there was really nothing to do for it. Any treatment would only be for the caregivers comfort, not the patient. We called hospice and confirmed the infomation, so we opted to do nothing. Hospice also confirmed that this usually signaled that the end was near, minutes to hours -- "I've never seen anyone go more than six hours." they told us. Mom gets the record; seven hours or so.
The gurgling was so bad we really couldn't understand how she was still able to breathe. We knew we couldn't do anything and that she was in her last hours. We felt helpless and Mom sounded so pitiful. Her mouth was filling with fluid and it was hard to get her pain medication to stay in. They told us to try swabbing her mouth and then giving her the medicine in four doses, five minutes apart. We asked if we should give her the medicine, but because morphine (and oxycodone) are narcotics the aids couldn't give it to us to administer. Amazingly -- and I plan to write a separate entry about this -- the aids said they were happy to spend as much time helping Mom as we needed. They loved her. Many aids came early, stayed late, or even stopped by on their day off to check on Mom. Most of them kissed Mom after administering her medicine. That in itself was a tremendous comfort -- to see how much they honestly cared for her and were grieving right along with us.
I don't remember the exact timing, but at some point we called Mom's brother and a close friend of hers. We put the phone to her ear so they could say their good-byes. We wanted to give Mom and closure we could. We put on music for her; sometimes 50s Rock & Roll, sometimes country, sometimes classical, sometimes show tunes. It was a bit anachronistic -- Mom laying on the bed close to death and my computer (thanks to internet radio) belting out show tunes, Chuck Berry, or Johnny Cash. Oh well...
My mother had lit candles when each of her children had suffered different crises in their lives. My brother suggested we do the same for her. He and I went to the store to get scented candles. The three of us lit them; one each. We joked with each other... "I get to light first." "Mom likes mine best." "No I want the cucumber melon one!" We wanted to make sure Mom knew it was us.
About 11:00PM things sounded very, very bad. My sister and I sat on opposite sides of Mom and held her hand and stroked her arm. Her hands, which had been almost colorless, became mottled with red. Her body was becoming colder. We sat and held her for almost an hour. Then we relaxed. Another crisis passed. I showed her some funny google videos. We were in the middle of "Matrix Pong" when we both turned toward Mom with a start. "Something changed", my sister said at 12:50AM. We took our position at her sides. The breathing changed to gasps. One eye opened and was not glassy for the first time since Friday afternoon. She could see the candles. Then at 12:58AM the breathing stopped... but her mouth kept opening and closing for almost another two minutes. Mom was dead.
You may want to skip this; it is intentionally graphic. I am writing this because I think it would have helped me when we were going through that last few days and hours of my mother's life to have known what others had experienced and what to expect.
My mother had been difficult to get along with for years. It now turns out that a lot of the problems were caused by the many pain and psychiatric drugs she was taking. Several different doctors who were not talking to each other were all prescribing medicine/drugs for her. My brother and his wife (to whom I owe a debt of gratitude I can never hope to repay for the care they gave our mother the last few years) finally got her into a geriatric psychiatric hospital, Senior Bridges. After spending almost two weeks there (a place she referred to as "prison") she came out with her medications cut in half and was a new person. I wish people wouldn't be so squeamish about the title and just get the needed help for their loved ones, whatever it may be.
Unfortunately, it appears that the ups and downs of her life, the drugs, the pain, and G-d knows what else was just too much. The best description of her condition I have heard is simply "failure to thrive". Nothing could be found to be medically wrong with her... her body was just shutting down and dying. Hospice was actually unsure of whether or not to take Mom because they couldn't put down a diagnosis. I was originally upset with my brother... how could he just sign a death warrant like that? Ultimately, though, they did take her and managed her care the last couple of weeks of her life. Was it the right decision? Could we have extended her life? I don't know.... I can't say it was right or wrong... but that is irrelevent now.
I arrived on Friday morning and told me brother that maybe we could get Mom out to the mall as I could use a pair of pants. He said that would be great, but it is really hard to get her out. We arrived and I spoke to Mom for just a few minutes. It turns out that was her last conversation in this world. A few times she tried to express a thought, but after a couple of words came out... it was gone. Someone brought a tiny little puppy by. Mom loved dogs and she petted it; the puppy was practicaly jumping out of the basket to get to her. (Later one of the aids would remind us of that... and add that the puppy had been really shy before that.) She closed her eyes and went to sleep. After a few hours my brother remarked that with this good nap, she might be really rested and be able to get around a little more the next day. My sister-in-law looked at him and said, "You're swimming in that river again; Duh Nile." That became a catch phrase for us all over the next few days.
"Maybe I better call our sister", my brother decided later Friday night. I had mixed feelings about that. I knew he should, but my sister and I had not spoken in years and I was afraid of confrontation. He called her, she said she would be up late Saturday afternoon. She walked in, and the most amazing thing occured... we were both so focussed on Mom that we rose above ourselves. I am pretty sure Mom hung on as long as she did to enjoy her children all together. She was acheiving something with her dying that she had not been able to have for years. I am sorry, Mom... we thought we had such good reasons for our difference. And the truth is, we did and we do; but they were not good enough. I wish we could have given that to Mom before she died, I am thankful we were able to give it to her now.
Sunday, Monday, and most of Tuesday continued pretty much status quo. It became apparent to us that Mom was not going to awaken in this world. We got used to the idea slowly... started talking about it. We never talked about that in front of her. Even though she never showed the slightest response, we knew she could hear and didn't want to cause her any undue distress. We tried shifting her to a more comfortable position a couple of times. That was almost always a mistake; we were "treated" to pitiful groans of pain. We realized we were trying to ease our discomfort, not Mom's; so we stopped all adjustments to her position except absolutely required -- either to help her retain her pain medication under her tongue or to change her. The bed sores were also getting worse; her skin was paper thin.
Mom was mostly breathing though her mouth. The one thing we could do that seemed to give her some comfort was give her a little liquid on a sponge for her to suck on. That was really the only reaction we got during those last days. We joked with her, "Mom! Give it back so we can give you more." We took turns, and I am sure Mom appreciated her children working together and getting along.
Here is a terrible admission... we were getting bored a lot of the time. I have heard that battle is like that; long periods of boredom punctuated with moments of terror. That pretty much describes those three days. We put on Moms's favorite channel, the cooking channel. Now I know name about Rachael Ray and sugar sculpture contests and other things I don't care about. We took Mom's pulse and blood pressure, we checked her temperature. We read the little blue pamphlet that hospice had given us. We had several false alarms. Her pulse went up to 130 and repirations to 27; then back down to 100 and 20. Her fever went up to 103; then back down to normal.
And a worse admission... we each secretly wondered why she was hanging on so long. We "gave her permission to leave", we asked forgiveness and gave forgiveness. But every time there was a hesitation in her breathing, we felt terror and panic... and guilt. How could we be trying to hasten her leaving? How dare we feel bored, with our mother there dying? I am sure these feelings are normal; and G-d forgive me for feeling them.
About 4:00PM on Tuesday afternoon, Mom started making a horrible gurgling sound. I had heard of "death rattle", and I looked it up. Amazingly, the residence had wireless internet, I had been able to do some work, email, and blogging right from her bedside. The information I found said that it was due to phlegm build up in the throat and there was really nothing to do for it. Any treatment would only be for the caregivers comfort, not the patient. We called hospice and confirmed the infomation, so we opted to do nothing. Hospice also confirmed that this usually signaled that the end was near, minutes to hours -- "I've never seen anyone go more than six hours." they told us. Mom gets the record; seven hours or so.
The gurgling was so bad we really couldn't understand how she was still able to breathe. We knew we couldn't do anything and that she was in her last hours. We felt helpless and Mom sounded so pitiful. Her mouth was filling with fluid and it was hard to get her pain medication to stay in. They told us to try swabbing her mouth and then giving her the medicine in four doses, five minutes apart. We asked if we should give her the medicine, but because morphine (and oxycodone) are narcotics the aids couldn't give it to us to administer. Amazingly -- and I plan to write a separate entry about this -- the aids said they were happy to spend as much time helping Mom as we needed. They loved her. Many aids came early, stayed late, or even stopped by on their day off to check on Mom. Most of them kissed Mom after administering her medicine. That in itself was a tremendous comfort -- to see how much they honestly cared for her and were grieving right along with us.
I don't remember the exact timing, but at some point we called Mom's brother and a close friend of hers. We put the phone to her ear so they could say their good-byes. We wanted to give Mom and closure we could. We put on music for her; sometimes 50s Rock & Roll, sometimes country, sometimes classical, sometimes show tunes. It was a bit anachronistic -- Mom laying on the bed close to death and my computer (thanks to internet radio) belting out show tunes, Chuck Berry, or Johnny Cash. Oh well...
My mother had lit candles when each of her children had suffered different crises in their lives. My brother suggested we do the same for her. He and I went to the store to get scented candles. The three of us lit them; one each. We joked with each other... "I get to light first." "Mom likes mine best." "No I want the cucumber melon one!" We wanted to make sure Mom knew it was us.
About 11:00PM things sounded very, very bad. My sister and I sat on opposite sides of Mom and held her hand and stroked her arm. Her hands, which had been almost colorless, became mottled with red. Her body was becoming colder. We sat and held her for almost an hour. Then we relaxed. Another crisis passed. I showed her some funny google videos. We were in the middle of "Matrix Pong" when we both turned toward Mom with a start. "Something changed", my sister said at 12:50AM. We took our position at her sides. The breathing changed to gasps. One eye opened and was not glassy for the first time since Friday afternoon. She could see the candles. Then at 12:58AM the breathing stopped... but her mouth kept opening and closing for almost another two minutes. Mom was dead.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Faith and a sense of humor, that is what you need to make it in this world -- R' Henoch Leibowitz, shlita.
We put on some music for my mother... Country Western via internet radio. All of the sudden we heard:
from "Believe", by Brooks and Dunn. And that was followed by, "send me an angel and show me the way".
Whew... some times that sense of humor is a bit sharp.
We put on some music for my mother... Country Western via internet radio. All of the sudden we heard:
I can't quote the book
The chapter or the verse
You can't tell me it all ends
In a slow ride in a hearse
You know I'm more and more convinced
The longer that i live
Yeah, this can't be
No, this can't be
No, this can't be all there is
from "Believe", by Brooks and Dunn. And that was followed by, "send me an angel and show me the way".
Whew... some times that sense of humor is a bit sharp.
Monday, April 03, 2006
One breath at a time...
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַלְלוּ יָהּ:
(תהלים פרק קנ פסוק ו)
King David chose to end his opus to the gamut of human emotion, the Book of Psalms, by declaring, "Every living thing shall praise G-d; Praise G-d!" King David chose to use the unusual word "neshama" to mean "living thing"; and our Rabbis of Blessed Memory tell us that King David's intent in using this word was to also express the message "with every breath (n'shima) I will praise G-d".
I am sitting in front of my mother. The skin on her face drawn and sunken. To be honest I have never seen live person look like this. Hospice tells us that she has hours, not days. The little blue pamphlet they gave us told us her breathing would become more irregular as time goes on. I hold my breath every time Mom hesitates... then I breathe when she does; and I thank G-d for that breath (mine and hers).
She seems to be past the pain now. She seems to not even like the medicine sitting in her mouth. Is she trying to spit it out? Can't really tell. I am guessing that as her soul becomes less attached to this world, the pains that have racked her body for so long are just too far away to be a concern.
I have music playing for her -- 50s Rock 'n' Roll -- seems a bit out of place, but she likes it.
Saying good-bye to Mom.
I really thought I could wait till Sunday. I talked to Mom on the phone on Thursday... she was a little confused, but lucid. Our very close friend had lost her father the day before. She pushed me... offered all of her airline miles to me... just go. My wife was scheduled for a procedure on Friday... Shabbos away from home is never fun. In the end I was convinced... American has a compassion fare... new problem: no compassion seats for a return trip... ok, come back later, fly back overnight. My wife and kids ran around getting my packed, buying food for me, making arrangements.
I arrived Friday morning and was met by my brother, his wife, and my Dad. We spent a couple of hours visiting and letting my brother get a little work done at his Reno store. One the way to see Mom, I got a quite unexpected phone call. "Mr. Allen? This is ....; I want to ask your daughter to marry me and I would like your blessing."
We arrived at my Mom's room. She recognized me and I was able to tell her about my daughter's engagement. My daughter was the first grandchild and Mom always had a special place in her heart for her. Mom tried to talk, but could not really get more than two or three words out before the thought would leave her. She had some juice and then closed her eyes to sleep. I didn't know that would be her last verbal communication. Her eyes opened a few times that day... but there was no vision in them. The only thing we have heard from her in the last couple of days is her increasingly rattly and irregular breathing.
My sister arrived late Saturday afternoon. I haven't seen her in 20 years, but nothing is really important now except that Mom has her three children together. We are waiting together. Deciding together how to handle things as the situation progresses. We do not agree on everything, but on two points we are in complete harmony. The first is that we each want what is best for Mom. The second is that my brother makes the final decision. My brother and his family have literaly dedicated their life to caring for my mother these last few years. I will never be able to adequately express my gratitude for all that he and his amazing family have done for our mother.
The goal is now to keep her as comfortable as we know how.
I arrived Friday morning and was met by my brother, his wife, and my Dad. We spent a couple of hours visiting and letting my brother get a little work done at his Reno store. One the way to see Mom, I got a quite unexpected phone call. "Mr. Allen? This is ....; I want to ask your daughter to marry me and I would like your blessing."
We arrived at my Mom's room. She recognized me and I was able to tell her about my daughter's engagement. My daughter was the first grandchild and Mom always had a special place in her heart for her. Mom tried to talk, but could not really get more than two or three words out before the thought would leave her. She had some juice and then closed her eyes to sleep. I didn't know that would be her last verbal communication. Her eyes opened a few times that day... but there was no vision in them. The only thing we have heard from her in the last couple of days is her increasingly rattly and irregular breathing.
My sister arrived late Saturday afternoon. I haven't seen her in 20 years, but nothing is really important now except that Mom has her three children together. We are waiting together. Deciding together how to handle things as the situation progresses. We do not agree on everything, but on two points we are in complete harmony. The first is that we each want what is best for Mom. The second is that my brother makes the final decision. My brother and his family have literaly dedicated their life to caring for my mother these last few years. I will never be able to adequately express my gratitude for all that he and his amazing family have done for our mother.
The goal is now to keep her as comfortable as we know how.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
I am starting this blog in response to the last few days of my life. This many jarringly different and powerful events in such a short period of time demands a response. Since last Wednesday, I have experienced (in order):
I do know that I cannot possibly hope to understand the entire meaning of anything that happens in my life. Of one thing, however, I am certain. The events do have meaning. The least I can do is acknowledge that fact and put the effort into drawing the lessons I can; for I believe that that effort itself is one of the puposes of these events.
- The celebration of the completion of a major tractate of the Talmud -- 11 years in the making.
- The death of a dear friend's father, preparing his body for burial, and laying him to rest.
- My mother slipping away from this world; and traveling to spend her last few days together with her and my brother and sister.
- The engagement of my oldest daughter to a wonderful young man whom we welcome into our family with open arms.
I do know that I cannot possibly hope to understand the entire meaning of anything that happens in my life. Of one thing, however, I am certain. The events do have meaning. The least I can do is acknowledge that fact and put the effort into drawing the lessons I can; for I believe that that effort itself is one of the puposes of these events.
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