We were both dreaming, my dad and I, while I was beside the edge of his bed, holding his hand, watching his eyelids flutter, waiting for the autonomic response—his barely imperceptible, occasional squeeze of my fingers—that served as a reminder to whisper, “I’m here” and tell him that my brother and sister-in-love were on their way. I don’t know what his morphine-induced dreams were about, but I was daydreaming about what would happen after my father died.
It was a rainy Sunday in the middle of October, almost two months since Dad was hospitalized for the last time. Back in August, when he was still lucid, we had decided to move him to The Jewish Home, where he could receive nursing and palliative care, as well as additional care from visiting Hospice aides and nurses. We couldn’t know how slowly or quickly he’d decline, but we knew we needed to begin making arrangements for that inevitable time. Neither of my brothers could find the deed to the family plot, and none of us wanted to schlep to Long Island for the burial, so I asked him what he wanted. He told me, “Do what’s best for you guys. Just take care of each other.”
Since then, I had spent considerable time thinking about the rituals surrounding death and dying, and I thought I knew which ones would be a comfort to me: sharing a formal hesped, eulogy, at the funeral; sitting shiva in my home and receiving visitors throughout the day, not only at minyan times; and taking a walk around the block on the last morning of shiva. In my experience as a rabbi, I’d found the symbolism of this ritual of reentry was often underappreciated. As I sat with Dad, I thought about a conversation I’d had with my friend Margaret, who had invited me to meet her for a walk a few days after Yom Kippur. When I’d declined her invitation because I was with Dad, I’d surprised myself by asking her to plan to accompany me on my eventual walk around the block after shiva.
For nearly ten hours, while my brother and his family rushed back to New Jersey from their vacation, I waited. Dad waited, too. I was relieved when my brother, the attorney, got there. In his absence, I’d had to sign all the paperwork and prepay for the funeral.
The next day, Monday, we returned together to his bedside—his three children and our spouses. We said all the things we thought he needed to hear:
It’s okay to leave. Whenever you’re ready. We’re taking care of each other.
We laughed a lot and cried a little.
By Tuesday morning, we were exhausted. The nurse said there had been no change in his condition overnight, so we tried catching up on work for a few hours. I was driving back toward The Jewish Home on County Road 537, less than five minutes away, when the nurse texted us: Your father may be approaching end of life. I focused on driving the speed limit, praying I’d get there in time…
When I arrived, I slipped my right hand into his palm and placed my left hand on his chest.
His hand was warm but his chest was still.
Again, I waited with him. Until my brothers arrived.
* * * * * * *
We buried him on Thursday. It was an impossibly beautiful day. We stood at the graveside for more than an hour, turning our faces to the sun, telling stories about Dad. He would have loved it. Especially the fact that we were soaking up the sunshine, talking about how he loved to sit in a 40-year-old lounge chair on his driveway—which he called Tar Beach—chatting with the neighbors who walked by. Each of us shared different stories from our childhoods, and every story shared a common message: Our dad loved us, and he raised us to be loving parents like him.
After the service, we all went to my brother’s house. My brother and his wife were friends in high school who became college sweethearts, and they raised their kids in the same synagogue where our parents raised us. There was a steady stream of visitors—never fewer than forty people at once—until well after dark. Knowing which rituals would help and not help him grieve, my brother had chosen to endure one day of shiva in his home and planned to spend Shabbat and Sunday at home decompressing. (Later, after I got up from shiva, I was surprised to learn from the rabbi that my brother had attended synagogue Friday night to be greeted as a mourner.)
Friday morning, my three adult children ran errands for me, printed copies of photos and created a collage, and helped my spouse organize all the food that arrived for Shabbat meals. There was so much food, cakes and cookies, and nearly all of it chocolate: chocolate babka and rugelach, Ghirardelli and Godiva. Everyone took turns checking on me to see if I needed anything.
I needed to rest, but I was restless. I tried to prepare to lead minyan Saturday night and Sunday morning, to choose Psalms for a House of Mourning to read in order to recite an extra Kaddish Yatom, Mourner’s Kaddish at each service. But I couldn’t get past the first two verses of Psalm 42 before abandoning the task. I was frustrated, but found it difficult to articulate why. I didn’t know yet that sitting shiva could simultaneously be a source of comfort and discomfort.
Later, when my spouse invited one of the kids to walk the dog with him, my frustration began to build. I realized that if the end of shiva and transition to the next stage of mourning was marked by walking around the block, then sitting shiva meant being stuck in the house.
As shiva progressed, my need to leave the house felt more urgent. Sometimes, seeking a little sunshine and fresh air, I’d sit on the porch. Within moments, I’d see an unfamiliar car drive slowly by the mailbox and realize it was another visitor looking for a place to park. I’d head back inside, frustrated that my attempt to leave the house was thwarted. Sitting in the living room, waiting for visitors to let themselves in, was excruciating. Until I heard my daughter say, “Oh, thank you. I’ll put that in the kitchen.”
Each time I’d look up to see a familiar face approaching—a colleague from the Tri-County Board of Jewish Clergy who I hadn’t seen since last spring, a woman I’d met when I arrived at her home to lead a shiva minyan, a couple from my congregation who purposefully stopped by in the middle of their workday because they wanted to hear stories about my dad. People I hadn’t known for very long, who didn’t know my dad but knew what it meant to lose a parent, showed up to comfort me.
* * * * * * *
On the last day of shiva, I awoke in total darkness at 5:10 am. My first thought was how sad I was that my daughter was leaving; she had booked an early flight home and her dad was driving her to the airport. My second thought was that my father was dead and, this being my last day of shiva, I had nothing to do but wait until 8:30 am, when Margaret would arrive to accompany me on my walk around the block.
While I waited, sitting in an oversized, comfy chair with my dog Henry, who was also waiting for a walk, I tried to make sense of my experience of shiva. My spouse returned from the airport and went upstairs to work. All week he’d been supportive and understanding, and there were also things he didn’t understand; his parents are both still living.
When Margaret parked her car and crossed the street, Henry jumped out of the chair to announce her arrival before she knocked on the door. She was wearing a warm hat and fleece, and I laughed, remembering that on one of our walks last winter we showed up wearing identical jackets. Over the past two years since I moved to New Jersey, Margaret introduced me to many local parks with great hiking trails. When we’re able to meet to walk, we just pick up the conversation where we left off.
While I was looking for my winter coat in the back of the closet, Henry started inching toward the door, his tail wagging. Then in walked Amy, the first rabbinic colleague I met when I moved to New Jersey. She had also introduced me to a local park where we’ve walked our dogs together. When she came for minyan earlier in the week, she noted that I mentioned I’d be walking around the block at 8:30 am, and she just showed up.
Although I hadn’t planned to be comforted by the presence of two friends, I was. Two new friends, people I hadn’t known my whole life but who had gotten to know through taking long walks, were standing in my living room, eager to accompany me on this short but challenging walk.
Before we stepped off the front porch, Amy gently told me to pause, to take a deep breath and take in the moment. I felt as though I was being initiated into a club that no one wants to belong to. Margaret, who committed to participate fully in this ritual, breathed with us. Then we all took a second deep breath and started down the driveway.
I remember Amy wisely suggesting we walk in the street because the sidewalk was too narrow to accommodate three people walking side by side. I have no recollection of what we talked about as we walked around the block. I just remember that we didn’t run out of things to say, so we all agreed to take a second lap.