Sitting Shiva
Two weeks ago, a strange and sad e-mail forward popped up in my inbox from my friend Nancy. Nancy is a friend of mine from my philosophy class and I’ve known her for about four years. She is completely insane in the best possible way – an artist, always dressed in some colorful crazy ensemble, always ready and eager to share a revelation with the class.
The Saturday before Father’s Day, Nancy’s brother Keith, an experienced recreational pilot, took off from an airport in Westchester with his wife, 14 year old daughter and and one of his daughter’s young friends in tow. The details are still fuzzy and the investigation is ongoing but for some reason, Keith radio-ed shortly after takeoff, saying he had to come back, that something was wrong and shortly after that, the small plane missed the runway, flipped over several times and crashed in the woods, everything ablaze in an instant.
And Nancy’s family as she knew it, was gone.
…
My mother told me that when I was a very tiny baby, the neighbor across the street suddenly dropped dead. Out of nowhere. A short while after the funeral, my mom got the feeling that she should stop by and see how the poor neighbor’s husband was faring but she felt uneasy. What would she say to him? Would he be mad at her for showing up? Would it be intruding? She didn’t know anything about how it felt to lose a wife.
But being my mother, she went anyway and took me with her. When the widower opened the door, his face contorted in pain and then relief.
“Oh, Rita,” he said, ushering her inside. “I was just sitting here by myself, thinking I might die of loneliness. And then you rang my doorbell.”
She kept him company and he held me and marveled over my little self (I’m assuming I was charming and perfect) and they talked and laughed and cried and spent time together.
“You show up,” my mother told me, a little lost in the memory. “It’s awkward and uncomfortable but you just. show. up.”
When I heard that there was going to be an informal shiva at Nancy’s parents’ house this past weekend, I took my mother’s advice. I drove to Westchester with a few friends from philosophy class. And together, we just showed up.
…
I grew up on Long Island and therefore it must shock you but I confess: I had never before been to a shiva, formal or informal. (Or a bar/bat mitzvah. My town was rather WASP-y, I suppose, for Long Island. Weird, right?) My experience with death was limited to mostly Catholic ceremonies. Open casket wakes and We Will Rise Again and On Eagle’s Wings, funerals with incense and from dust to dust and a priest always saying that the deceased went to a better place to be with Jesus which always rather annoyed me because at the moment, anyway, everyone was kind of thinking that they would rather the dead person come back to earth and be with them instead.
But, I suppose, that could be comforting for some people.
I was relieved to find out that the informal shiva was pretty much like going back to someone’s house after a Catholic funeral. There’s tons of food and people stop by and there’s that horrible moment when you hug a family member and you just sort of say automatically, “Hi! How are you?” and then you want to punch yourself in the stomach because HOW DO YOU THINK THEY ARE? PROBS NOT VERY GOOD, AMIRITE? OH MY GOD LAURA, SHUT UP SHUT UP.
But.
Shiva, wake, funeral, all of it. It’s all the same. It’s grief. And it’s laughing while crying. And it’s human.
Nancy couldn’t believe we had driven up to Westchester and she shrieked when she saw us, inviting us out onto the back porch to sit. She babbled a mile a minute about how she was doing and all the irritating logistical stuff she was dealing with like the media and the detectives and trying to find out her brother’s dentist because who knows their brother’s dentist?!
We all listened and nodded and were like, yeah me neither! why would I know that!? And then it would hit me that she was talking about the dentist because there were no other remains left to identify her family members’ bodies.
Everything but teeth burned.
“At least my niece had braces,” Nancy said brightly. “She was easy!”
I met Nancy’s parents who are 85 years old and who have been married since they were eighteen. They were completely charming, welcoming, funny and heartbreaking all at once. The reality of their situation would sink in every so often and suddenly, their faces would darken. What I loved about them so much was how honest they were about it. They weren’t trying to pretend. When they had something to say, they said it. When they felt something, they let you know.
Nancy’s mother sat with me and my boyfriend for a long time. She was mostly irritated that no one was letting her do anything.
“I love to iron!” she protested. “No one would let me iron!”
“They want to take care of you,” I said gently.
“But I love to iron!”
She told us stories of how she met Nancy’s dad. How he walked in the room and it was love at first sight. She watched Nancy greeting her friends and remarked, “Isn’t she so nice? Nancy is SUCH a nice girl.”
We all agreed.
At one point, she turned to my boyfriend and apologized.
“I’m sorry I’m talking so much,” she said. “It’s just…I’m dying on the inside.”
And with that comment, I died a little on the inside too.
I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and take all of that sadness away. Instead I rubbed her shoulders and held her hand and listened while she spoke, asked her questions about her life. A remarkable, strong woman with so much to say.
“You’re so cute!” Nancy playfully said to her mother giving her arm a squeeze.
“You’re cuter!” Nancy’s mom replied.
She continued: “I have two cute kids!”
And then she paused as the room went silent.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully. “Now I have just one.”
I felt like I held my breath for hours after that.
Later she was talking about how her husband was inside talking to her sister.
“He hates my sister,” she said.
“Oh,” said me and my boyfriend.
“But I tell him! I tell him, my sister is a good person! She’s 88 years old and she drives me when he can’t drive me. So, he’s not allowed to hate my sister.”
“Oh,” we said again.
“Also,” she said, pinching my boyfriend on the cheek. “If he says he hates my sister? Well, then he doesn’t get his goodies.”
She winked and walked off toward the living room.
My boyfriend and I were silent.
“Was that just a sexual reference?” I asked.
“She pinched my cheek and winked,” said my boyfriend, flabbergasted. “AND THEY ARE 85 YEARS OLD?!”
“I guess you’re never too old to get your goodies,” I reasoned.
And then I just couldn’t contain my laughter anymore.
I hadn’t planned on staying the afternoon but the hours went by and I really couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. We all just sat together on a porch, on a sunny June afternoon, passing around plates of food, looking at pictures. It struck me that from the outside it might seem like any other summer Saturday. A gathering of friends, just spending time together. But then I would get a glimpse of the photo collage, Nancy’s young niece. Her brother in front of his plane. His wife.
It would then occur to me that those people in the pictures were no longer living and breathing, as I was. That I was meeting their family because they died. It was probably a tiny ounce of what Nancy will feel in the months to come. Reminders that will pop up out of nowhere, strong and full of force, that her life is changed forever.
Sometime around 6 or so, we finally took off back to the city.
“I cried when you walked in the door,” said Nancy. And I hugged her closer than I ever have before.
…
That afternoon reiterated to me the value in my very wise mother’s advice.
You just show up. You do. Because it’s about connection. And support. And though you might not know what to say and though people might be crying or making jokes about their goodies, you just go. Because it’s the right thing to do.
I saw that so clearly this past weekend.
“What do you feel like?” asked my boyfriend after we had returned to the city. He was referring to making plans for the rest of the evening.
“I feel like crying,” I said.
“Ohhh, I see. Would you like to be alone?” he asked me.
“That’s okay,” I said, the tears already starting to fall.
He wrapped his arms around me while my heart broke for Nancy and her family. For inexplicable horrors, for accidents, for the world which seemed so sad and hard.
All we really have to do in this life is serve each other. We can only offer what we have and it’s a continuous circle, we take care of someone and then someone takes care of us.
And when life seems really confounding and broken and stricken with grief, you just show up.
You just do.
You did the best thing, you made the trip. She’ll always remember it. I had a very unfortunate period of getting “good” at this, when two of my best friends lost a combined three parents and one sibling, all separately. Your description of the scene is perfect. And the gaffes; I still remember my exiting the funeral home for my friend’s father’s wake and in the midst of an unrelated story, announcing, “It was terrible, I wanted to die!” I still slap my past self in the mouth for that.
Very, VERY well said. It took me losing my Dad (at whose Catholic funeral we played Eagle’s Wings…THANK YOU VERY MUCH
) to learn this lesson you discuss here. Very well written and thank you for sharing it.
Having just done this for my grandfather – you described it perfectly. Times when you laughed at stories about him that were SO him…and others when you just wanted to fall to the ground with sadness. Thank you.
My daughter died 18 months ago, and my husbands brother didn’t come because of some bullshit reason. And it hurts to this day. Yes. You just show up.
This is beautiful. You are beautiful.
Thank you for this. When my mom died in 2008, I was so incredibly touched and comforted just by the people who showed up. People who took their time out of their lives, time off work, travel time, whatever it was, and they gave it to me, my mom, my family. I don’t really remember what anybody said, that is not what matters. They were THERE. They cared enough to come. I cannot describe how comforting that was for me, that people cared enough to come.
Aww. I loves you. I can’t really process this right now re: my own death trauma, but I read it, it’s wonderful like you, and I loves you.
This is so, so staggeringly well-written and wise and warm and human. Thank you.
This is beautiful. Really, truly perfectly said. It’s so hard, but you do just show up… I’ve learned that never ever will a family wonder why you’re there, or why you’re not doing a certain thing. They are just glad for your presence. I learned that at my Grandpa’s funeral/wake and I’ve been conscious of it ever since, even though it’s led me into some hard situations I’d rather have avoided.
You just show up. Right. Thank you for writing this!
Wow. Yes.
It seems inappropriate to say, but this post was an awesome way to start the morning. I often forget how valuable connection is. Thanks for the reminder.
You made me cry. And you made me want to be a better person. Thank you.
Thank you everybody for stopping by! And for all the wisdom you are adding to the discussion. And I’m sorry for all those who had to learn this lesson firsthand by losing someone. I liked what Jackie said – that she didn’t really remember what anyone said, but she remembered that people cared enough to come. I love that. It makes me feel more confident in my choice to show up and reminds me not to fret about saying the perfect thing. Thanks you guys! You’re so nice!
I was directed here from another blog and am so glad! This is just a profound post and so honest. I just lost my dad as well and he and I were estranged for most of my adult life. I was there when he died, though, and I know he knows I was there. There were not a lot of people that I knew at his funeral, but the presence of friends I haven’t seen in years was so comforting.
Excellent post!
Tamara
When my Dad, our family’s anchor, passed away we of course were adrift and devastated.
The next day, I was at my sister’s house (my Dad and she were “neighbors” as well), with my brother and my sister’s kids. We were 3 adults trying to figure out how to live everyday without a Dad and unsuccessfully trying to get a meal together for all of my nephews. We couldn’t concentrate or stop crying.
The doorbell rang and when I opened it, some friends from my office (NOT my closest friends) were standing on the other side with dinner. They hugged us all, cried with us and were gone.
I will NEVER forget that gesture and that they just showed up. It was so simple but it meant so much to all of us.
I was redirected here from Facebook (of all things) with the warning to “only read this if you want to cry, like, a lot.” I thought to myself, Eh. I am a robot with a heart of stone. I’ll be fine.
I was not fine. I wept like a child.
Thank you for this. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking and true.
(And I’ll be reading your archives tout de suite.)
Thank you so much for sharing this. I lost my father almost 2 weeks ago (on Father’s Day of all days) from a heart attack and am still reeling from the loss. I am a social worker and have worked at hospice in the past. I thought I would be prepared to handle death after seeing it everyday, but nothing could prepare me for this. I’m also 7 months pregnant and my son will never know his grandfather. What I learned and treasured from the past 2 weeks is the value of presence. Words are nice, but I think the mere fact of people being there for me meant the most. If you don’t know what to say to someone who just lost a loved one, sometimes you don’t have to say anything at all. Just knowing someone is there sharing in my sorrow and pain was very powerful.
this is so beautifully written and so, so true. I lost my Dad last December and it really does mean a tremendous amount when people just show. up. And that feeling you felt when you got home…that was you carrying some of the burden of grief for your friend.
You’re right too, about humor having it’s role. My older brother and I were standing next to each other at the visitation as hundreds of police officers and firefighters lined up outside to pay their respects to my Dad. My brother asked me how I was doing and I said..”honestly, my feet are killing me” my brother, always at the ready motioned to the front of the room and said “it could be worse, you could have a place to lie down.”
I know it’s crass, but it was so needed at the time.
Rita is very smart.
My friend’s dad died of cancer many years ago, and four of us made the 4 hour drive to attend the wake. We knew him, but she knew we were there for her and she just broke down when she saw us. She said she had been holding it together just fine until we got there. Showing up means a whole lot more than we give it credit for.
On the flip side, one of my college friends has never forgiven another one of our friends for not coming to her wedding. The friend who did not attend made some lame excuses (it’s a Sunday night, I have to work on Monday, I don’t like driving in Boston, etc), and their relationship suffered from lack of effort.
Thank you for being a good person. I have always believed you know what’s right and that is why you do it even if you are inconvenienced for a few hours. The shiva period is very important because it help start the very difficult healing process and you have learned the importance of that. Thanks again for the tears.
There is an ever-increasing move to reduce visitation time, even to have immediate cremation with a “convenient” memorial service later on. Without the Jewish Shiva there is no established time or place for family and friends to actually gather. Visitation used to be 2 days. Now it’s down to part of an afternoon and evening – if it’s held, at all. As a boy, I learned more family history at funerals than any other time, growing up. As a Presbyterian, I think we need to consider the merits of the Shiva.
I love this post. There is something AMAZING about shiva. It’s exhausting…5 or 6 days of daily mourning…but you need it. It helps to quell the loneliness. It seriously does. When my grandma (may her memory be a blessing, as we say in Judaism) died, the most special thing was spending time with people, some whom I had never met, who came to comfort me. That’s the visitors job: to comfort the mourner. I heard funny stories, I got to talk about her. I agree with Chuck: the family history that I gathered was priceless.
How beautifully put. I am resolving anew to just show up for those who may need me.
I remember when my uncle David died, and we went to his widow’s house after the funeral, enjoying the company of family and smiling and sharing pictures… and then from time to time someone would remember what had brought us all together and hold back the tears, or not. So sad when it’s funerals that bring us together, but it’s still togetherness.
A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love.
-Saint Basil
You did nice.
I, too, was … erm … “directed” here via Facebook and I also laughed-cried. I thank you.
I’ve sat shiva with a friend for her father, driven a friend to her mother two hours away and stayed the night after her father died, and stood in long lines at funeral visitations. You have to be there, to give the hugs, to helplessly shrug and say, “I’m so sorry” and be willing to go on that roller coaster of emotions. It is exhausting, but so worthwhile. The ones I am closest to are still with me, but the day will come, and I know I will always remember those who made the effort to be there. Thanks for triggering this discussion.
This was beautiful, and so touching. Thank you.
There is something about the presence of people who come, particularly when they haven’t the words or magic bullet. Somehow those visits last long after they’ve ended. Such a treasure that you added to her circle.