This story truly begins about two years ago with my father’s illness.
He was in the hospital for about three months and, when he finally came home, my mother insisted on being his primary caregiver.
Unsurprisingly, this took a great deal out of her.
My father passed away in February. The family sat Shiva together and was a great source of consolation for each other. Whenever anyone came to the house my mother told them to “call when you get home”. Ma worried about everyone and her sitting shiva was no excuse not to care about the safety and well-being of visitors to her home.
Standing at my father’s grave after we got up from Shiva, my mother was crying and saying, “Sweetheart, I’ll be with you soon.”
But Ma loved life and began rebuilding hers. She gained weight and was doing ok for a few months. During this time, as was our custom, we spoke every day except Shabbos and Yontiff.
But then my mother started eating less and less. In June, technicians drew six vials of blood for routine testing. The tests didn’t show anything serious, but Ma really started to decline – losing weight, no appetite and no energy.
It was on July 17, that my sister took Ma to the hospital. They diagnosed her as dehydrated. They gave her fluid and electrolytes, and sent her home. We still spoke every day. That Thursday, July 20, Ma couldn’t get out of bed. When I called to speak with her, my sister asked if she wanted to talk to me and she said “no”. They checked her back into the hospital the same day while I made arrangements to fly to Israel.
I arrived in Israel the following Monday – July 31 – and my brother drove me directly to the hospital. Ma was literally skin and bones. Seeing me, she summoned up enough strength to say the last words she uttered in this world, “I’m glad you’re here.”
On Tuesday, the doctors told us that Ma had stage 4 stomach cancer. They urged us not to feed her and they weren’t going to give her nutrients as this would “feed the cancer.” They would only give her fluids so she wouldn’t dehydrate. We tended to her, wetting her lips and mouth and putting drops in her eyes as she no longer had the strength to close her eyelids. Her pupils were severely dilated. On Saturday, we instructed the doctors to give her morphine.
Earlier in the week, when it was obvious there was no hope, I told Ma that I was scheduled to go back to the US on Monday, the 31st, but I wanted to stay in Israel to be with my family. Ma hung on. I was besides myself with guilt. How could I leave Israel with her in this condition? After telling my wife how I felt, she urged me to extend my trip. My brother also urged me to stay.
Finally, I made the decision. I would not go home as scheduled. On Sunday, when I went to the hospital, I told her, “Ma, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going home tomorrow. Take as long as you need. I’ll wait for you.” She passed away 3 hours later. Six months and a day after my Dad. She made it possible for me to close her eyes, and sit Shiva in Israel with my brother and sister, instead of sitting in America by myself. Shiva shared is always better, and Ma timed her leaving to help me. She gave to me and her family her whole life. This was her final gift – or was it?
We were distraught as would be expected, but we were also guilt-ridden: We listened to the doctors about withholding sustenance – so my mother starved to death. She could no longer eat, but should we have ignored the doctors advice and insisted on her getting nutrients even though it would have hastened the end? Should we have started the morphine sooner?
Most of Shiva was uneventful. We received visitors, read sad texts, and and davened, but we still kept questioning ourselves if we had done the right thing. Before Shabbos during the week of Shiva, we “got a call” to let us know she arrived and everything was OK.
After my Dad passed, Ma donated almost all of his clothes to charity. As we were spending Shabbos in Jerusalem, my brother asked his wife in Beer Sheva to send him things we would need – basically, food for us and his Shabbos clothes. He asked her to send him a Shabbos sweater because, even though is was summer, it was cold in the Shul because of the air conditioning. His wife, who is a very meticulous and organized person, sent everything he asked for except the sweater.
My brother decided to look around the apartment to see if there was a sweater he could use. A few of my Dad’s sweaters were the only clothes Ma didn’t donate. My brother selected one. In cleaning out the pockets, he found three shekels – one for each of us to donate to charity from my Dad for Ma.
Too many coincidences: My brother wanting a sweater for Shabbos; His wife failing to send that one article of clothing; Ma donating all my Dad’s clothes, except for the sweater; My Dad leaving three one shekel coins in the pocket; Hashem wanted us to be comforted – He “called” to let us know Ma was with Dad and they had gotten “home.”
