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February 19 is the anniversary of my father’s death on the Gregorian calendar, so tonight I will light a yahrzeit candle. The date is actually different on the Jewish calendar, but I normally mark the nineteenth. When I checked yesterday, I discovered that the date this year was on my birthday. Thank the universe that I didn’t know that. I still remember praying when he was sick that he wouldn’t die on my birthday. As it was, it was during Mardi Gras season. The call came at 2 or 3 in the morning. My brother was here for the parades. I told him what had happened and we both went back to bed. It had been expected; we were both exhausted and neither of us probably wanted to see the pain on each other’s faces.
According to a recent report on NPR, we can remember emotional pain, but not physical pain. So, yes, I remember calling the hospital almost every day, hoping for good news. This was before cell phones were common, so I was often in a conference room trying to hide my pain and tears from my co-workers.
After he died, I remember pain mixed with joy because the Saturday before the funeral was also the first day of my conversion to Judaism class. I went to class and then drove home, trying to drive with tears in my eyes. I’ll never hear “You’ve Got a Friend” without tears again. Friends pulled me through that time.
Then a year or two afterwards: suffering the normal grieving process. I felt like I was going mad. Tears would come at odd times. I would spend weekends crunched in a ball in bed. I would weep tears because he wouldn’t be there to talk to (even though we found conversation difficult after I left home), that he wouldn’t be there to walk me down the aisle (even though I never expected that to happen) , and that he wouldn’t be there to complain about. I had read enough to understand the grief. Knowing only made the process feel even more like madness. I know what this is! Why am I still suffering?
That was years ago, and I light a candle each year. This weekend, I heard a man on the radio describe watching his father die in front of him. Later, he recalled his coach correct him when he said that he was “all right”. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Your father just died. You’ll never forget this.” And I dissolved into tears. What’s the date, I thought. What’s the date? I haven’t bought this year’s candle!
So, I’ll light this year’s candle at midnight: in memory of Ezekiel. My father.
According to a recent report on NPR, we can remember emotional pain, but not physical pain. So, yes, I remember calling the hospital almost every day, hoping for good news. This was before cell phones were common, so I was often in a conference room trying to hide my pain and tears from my co-workers.
After he died, I remember pain mixed with joy because the Saturday before the funeral was also the first day of my conversion to Judaism class. I went to class and then drove home, trying to drive with tears in my eyes. I’ll never hear “You’ve Got a Friend” without tears again. Friends pulled me through that time.
Then a year or two afterwards: suffering the normal grieving process. I felt like I was going mad. Tears would come at odd times. I would spend weekends crunched in a ball in bed. I would weep tears because he wouldn’t be there to talk to (even though we found conversation difficult after I left home), that he wouldn’t be there to walk me down the aisle (even though I never expected that to happen) , and that he wouldn’t be there to complain about. I had read enough to understand the grief. Knowing only made the process feel even more like madness. I know what this is! Why am I still suffering?
That was years ago, and I light a candle each year. This weekend, I heard a man on the radio describe watching his father die in front of him. Later, he recalled his coach correct him when he said that he was “all right”. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Your father just died. You’ll never forget this.” And I dissolved into tears. What’s the date, I thought. What’s the date? I haven’t bought this year’s candle!
So, I’ll light this year’s candle at midnight: in memory of Ezekiel. My father.
