My Mother's Armoire

Ma and I were of similar clothing size, and wore the same shoe size. 

Her one "vice," if that is what it can be called, was a love of beautiful attire. Our outings were usually shopping in nature, and the thrill of the hunt—finding garments and footwear that were stunning yet exponentially reduced in price—gave us such pleasure. 

Cleaning out her closets was a difficult enterprise; I'm still only halfway. I have fantasies of altering her magnificent wardrobe for my own use, and I have appropriated what fits already. Will I ever give away her designer skirts, sweaters, suits? She would burrow in there on Shabbos morning, already liberally scented with perfume, as she tenderly selected her attire for shul. She would stride in, in stylish sunglasses and red lipstick that lasted overnight, whipping off her glamorous fur.

She also loved her bling. She had a right-hand ring that I always coveted, and I now wear it daily. It's a constant, comforting reminder of her. My sister-in-law said years ago of her "gam zeh yaavor" ring how looking at it, when the kids were misbehaving, reminded her that this too shall pass. Looking at my mother's ring, I recall her capability, her wisdom, her powering through even when it was difficult. 

While Ma could be the classy "lady," she could also strip down to the basics in order to prep for Shabbos and yuntiff. She loved the holidays, to the point that while there was effort, it was definitely worth it.  

Ari Scott's "Wearing My Dying Mother's Clothes" echoes my sentiments. Her clothing and accessories were an extension of her; wearing them keeps her close. 

Religious Grieving

My sister lent me her copy of Modern Loss by Rebecca Sofer and Gabrielle Birkner. The book is a compilation of personal stories about death, as well as cartoons, and opens each section with continuations of Sofer's or Birkner's narrative. 

What struck me was that although Sofer and Birkner are Jewish, and maintained (to some extent) the Jewish rituals like shiva, there was no mention of religion as a source of comfort.  

Simultaneously, I was reading a novel by Elinor Lipman called The Inn on Lake Devine, in which there is a tragic death. There was this scene that stood out to me: 

I asked him if he believed in life everlasting and all that. 

"Do you?" 

I lied. "Sure." 

He said, "I wish I did." 

I told him I didn't either but had wanted to say the right thing. I said, "I think religion was invented to deal with death. It's when it helps the most."  

The narrator, by the way, is Jewish. 

I am not a heretic; I don't believe religion was invented to deal with death. But religion most certainly helps. 

Many other vignettes in the book mention shiva, or other Jewish death rituals, but there is no conversation about how that connects to a greater plan. 

After Ma died, my niece was asking worriedly what Babi had died of. My sister explained, but then clarified, quoting the family guru: "But Babi didn't die because she was sick. She died because it was her time." 

Viewing the vacuum Ma left behind, at times I feel despair at the impossibility of ever adequately filling it and wonder, "Why did she have to die?" But for the most part, I'm at peace with it. 

My grandparents dealt with such losses that boggle the mind—nor were they all Holocaust inflicted (Babi never knew her father; he died when she was a baby. Her mother died on the table after a misdiagnosis before the war). Perhaps, that is why I mostly experience gratitude—amongst the sadness—for the years I did have with my mother.

There is comfort when one abdicates control.    

The Time is Now

I once read that there is no official psychological term known as "closure." I found that very gratifying, indeed. 

"Closure" is a term we use instead of "curiosity." 

"Don't you need closure?" Chava asks. "Ask Sarah why she stopped answering her texts!" 

It's more like Chava's curious.

"Closure" is one of those cultural go-to terms, like "romance" and "gluten-free."

 

Books and movies promulgate its necessity. Cantankerous, deathbed-ridden parents realize their hurtful errors in raising their children, confess their sins and affirm their love to teary-eyed offspring, then slip from this world with a casual "I'm so tired." 

 

Real life . . . oh, real life. 

Katie Roiphe in "Dying, With Nothing Left to Say" begins how her father's sudden death robbed her of one reassurance she wished to have given him before he went. 

. . . I realized that while nearly everyone has a fantasy of a “last conversation” with someone they love, very few people actually have it. It is the fantasy of resolving all conflicts, of emotional catharsis, that rarely ever comes to pass, because the habits of reticence or resentment that were there the whole time are still there, because the proximity of death does not transform personalities, or compel us to cut through to the heart of things, however much we want it to.

People are people, even when the end is nigh. Roiphe had wanted to ask her father more about his youth, but he never had been a chatty man. My paternal grandmother never opened up about her time in the camps, and would it have been fair to her to demand painful information when she craved peace?

Even the writers I was researching — people who lived in structure, plots, words — mostly did not find their way to conversations that offered a satisfying ending. They left things messy, unresolved, dangling.

The bedspread of life is not known for neat, military corners. Life is more like the impossible-to-fold fitted sheet. 

Two letters, in response to this article, stuck with me: 

In 2005, I picked up my mother-in-law, Mary, from the airport as she returned from vacation. I brought her to my home for some soup and then helped her load her car for her half-hour drive home. As she was stepping into her car, she turned and said, “Johnny, I tell all my friends that you are perfect.”

An hour later, my wife and I were called to the emergency room, where we found that Mary had died in a car accident.

While knowing that I am hardly perfect, I have treasured Mary’s last words ever since. Katie Roiphe suggests in her article that, with the approach of death, we anticipate the opening of a “new, honest, generous space” in which “there is a directness, an expansiveness” that can be filled with meaningful last words.

Mary showed that we can create and fill such a space with special words on any day, without knowing whether or not death is at hand.

JOHNNY WILLIS

Schenectady, N.Y.

We have heard it often enough: Live every day as though it is your last. Kind speech does not have to be reserved for meaningful moments. It should be an everyday habit. 

While Katie Roiphe writes about people in the last hours of life, the uncomfortable reality is that we are all dying.

I am a health psychologist who studies people at the end of life. I became a bereaved daughter when I was 25 years old. These experiences taught me that the trick to “having something to say,” or those deep and meaningful conversations, come to people who are able to face their own mortality well before they are on their deathbeds.

Dying, like giving birth, is a biological event. Giving birth does not instantly turn women into excellent mothers any more than dying turns one into a wise Buddha.

If we want to have a good death, we need to invest in a good life. Look death in the eye every day, and remember that time is finite, that our loved ones will not always be here, and that the time to talk is right now.

LEEAT GRANEK

Tel Aviv

The writer is an assistant professor and head of the gerontology and sociology of health program at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev.