Death and Adolescence Don’t Mix

This week I did something I’ve been dreading for a long time: I buried a 17-year-old.

In this case, I didn’t perform the funeral (that was done by another rabbi in another state), but the family plot was here in Portland, and so they needed a rabbi for the interment. It meant I had less contact with the family than I usually do for a funeral, and was less clear on the relationships and the background. I thought that would make me feel less connected, but I don’t think it did.

As opposed to most people, I’m fairly familiar with the what it looks like when you bury a loved one. I know about how much crying there will usually be, or at least the range of crying to expect. I don’t mean to sound callous, and I certainly don’t feel immune to the sadness and grief that accompany a funeral, but having been to 30 or  so funerals, one develops a certain sense of what is regular. This wasn’t regular.

The entire family was crying. Not shedding a few tears, but really crying. Most of the other folks who were there to support the family had tears in their eyes. This was a pain that tore at the soul. This was a pain that tore at my soul.

I have written before about my views of God, and why bad things happen to good people. My view tends to boil down to the idea that God is not a controlling deity who can just “fix things.” but is rather that part of the universe that can cause us to do good. Or is the universe itself, but without a true volition. This is my intellectual, and often spiritual belief in God. Events like burying a 17-year-old challenge this.

At the graveside, I found myself asking God, “why?’ I found myself thinking that just as adolescents feel immortal, perhaps they should be immortal. That they should not die. I found myself asking the Holy for an explanation, and trying to hold the Divine responsible. These are not reactions born of intellectual reason. Even as I asked them, I knew they implied a theology which is not my own. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from asking them.

Sometimes, the pain of the day is too much, and I need God to be more than God is. And I cry out to  God, because even if God cannot act to change what is, at least God can hear my pain. And I, perhaps, can feel a little better.

If you have adolescents, hug them. Remind them to have fun, but that there are behaviors that are too risky, even if they feel immortal. Driving too fast can be deadly. There are drugs which can kill you. There are many risks which will turn out okay most of the time, but once in a while, will kill you. And even if your kids won’t change their behavior to protect their lives, ask them to do it to protect all those who love them from their death. Please. This is pain no one should suffer.

Eva’s Memorial to Artemis

I read a draft of David’s blog post about Artemis and told him that he had not gotten anywhere close to capturing the quality of their connection. I later realized that I had a different perspective on their relationship, and what I wasn’t seeing was an outsider’s perspective. I asked David if I could write a guest post and he agreed. So here goes.

When my cat, Viktor Chernomyrdin, and I landed at PHL to meet up with David (who had moved there a few months prior to start rabbinical school), he met us with the keys to our new house. We stopped by his apartment to pick up his cats, Artemis and Diana, and we all moved into our first home together. Thus began my life with the deities (my collective term for Artemis and Diana).

Having lived with David and Artemis for almost 11 years, I still struggle to find words to describe the nature of their relationship. In some ways, they were like an old married couple: reflecting each other’s moods, taking comfort in their routine and knowing exactly how to press each other’s buttons—which they did with great regularity.

David and Artemis would pick up each other’s moods. When David was anxious, Artemis became anxious. When one of them was grumpy, the other one became grumpy. This was a particular issue because Artemis used to get very grumpy when she was sick. Unfortunately for all 3 of us, Artemis had a lot of experience with illness. Thus when Artemis was sick, I got to deal with both a grumpy David and a sick Artemis.

As one might imagine, Artemis developed a deep loathing of the vet. She loved the part where she got to sit on David’s lap and look out the window on the car ride to and from the vet’s office. As soon as we entered the vet’s building, she would start hissing. She hated that place so much that she would hiss at inanimate objects, just in case we forgot how angry she was to be there. But, as soon as we got back into the car, she would revert to her normal happy self and enjoy the ride home.

At some point our vet realized that Artemis was slightly less agitated if David held her while her blood was being drawn. This stopped working when David started getting really anxious about Artemis’ health, which, in turn, made Artemis anxious. Once we got to the point where I had to calm David so he could calm Artemis our vet decided that David had become more of a hindrance than a help.

Artemis often treated David like an oversized kitten. She loved to groom him to make sure that he was always clean and tidy. Artemis groomed me on occasion, but gave up grooming my hair once she realized that I was a VERY long-haired cat and that was not within her job description.

Artemis had no compunction about disciplining David when he did something wrong (using her own definition, of course). Artemis indicated her displeasure to most people with a very gentle bite which clearly conveyed “thank you very much, but that is all for now.” With David, she used a wide range of bites, depending on her degree of displeasure with his behavior. She never did that with anyone else. Not me, not the other cats, no one but David.

Artemis hated it when David traveled and responded by defiantly acting out. She would get on the table (something she knew was forbidden) and look me straight in the eye, daring me to remove her. When David returned she would snub him. She would occasionally have to get on his lap or groom him, but as soon as she was done, the snubbing resumed.

When we both went away we would get a cat sitter because the conventional wisdom is that cats prefer to stay in their home territory and dogs prefer a kennel. Although we were always happy to come home to our cats, we did so with a bit of dread. We knew that Artemis would act out for the next few days, just in case we thought she was ok with the idea of us leaving home.

At some point we tried boarding Artemis and Diana at the Arnold Creek Cat Retreat. This turned out to be a brilliant move on our part. Artemis enjoyed her vacations so much that she ceased her post-travel retaliatory behavior. When we arrived at the cattery, Artemis would offer some perfunctory hisses before slipping into her routine. She would walk around the cattery informing all of the other cats that she was in charge, then she would go sit under the feather toy and wait patiently for Shirley to play with her. There were some more perfunctory, guilt inducing, hisses when we left. Apparently, once we were out of sight she would settle in and enjoy herself.

For reasons beyond our ken, all three of our cats developed lymphoma. When we moved back to Portland in 2004, Artemis was just becoming symptomatic and we were concerned that she might not even make it through the move. As soon as we got somewhat settled, we went to the Cat Hospital of Portland and met Dr. Elizabeth Colleran—Artemis’ arch nemesis. Artemis never did figure out why we were so enamored with her and we had to resort to euphemisms when she learned the words “vet” and “Dr. Colleran.”

I give Dr. Colleran most of the credit for getting Artemis’ lymphoma into remission not once, but twice. I also know that Artemis fought her disease with everything she had because she did not want to leave her David.

It is no exaggeration to say that Artemis was in charge of our household. She supervised everything we did: our morning showers, our meals, working, reading, everything. Since there were two of us she was sometimes forced to split her attention, but she never slacked on her responsibilities.

Artemis did not always come to the door to see us out, but she was always in the window meowing when we got home. If I got home before David she would hang out with me, while always keeping an ear out for David’s return. Every time we walked in the door, she would remind us of the protocol. Specifically, that she was to be picked up and properly greeted before we did anything else. She always voiced her disapproval if we wanted (or needed) to put things down before picking her up. That was just not how it was done.

Artemis aged very quickly at the end, and she only started really looking like the old lady she was in the last 3 months of her life. But even though she was feeling really crappy all that time, she did not forgo any of her responsibilities to David or the household. Recognizing that time was short, David fretted over whether he would be able to let her go if it came to that. But Artemis was true to the end. She was herself until her final seizure, after which it was unquestionably time to say goodbye.

I have had 5 cats who were with me until they died. But Artemis’ death has been the hardest to bear. There is nowhere I can go or anything I can do at home without being acutely aware of her absence. When I sit on the couch with my laptop, I still contort my body so I can leave my lap available for her (she always felt that laptops were a waste of a good lap, even if she was happily settled on someone else’s lap). I still automatically check for her water bowl. Most cats hate drinking water, but not Artemis. She loved drinking.

Artemis had a very odd fetish, but I suppose everyone is entitled to at least one. Artemis loved to sit on my dirty bras, the stinkier, the better. Artemis herself had an amazing smell. It was warm and comforting in a way that I imagine mothers smell to their babies.

Mornings are the time I miss her most. Mornings were the one time of day when I had Artemis all to myself. I always found it comforting to leave David, barely awake, cuddled with his most beloved Artemis.

I often say that I come second to Artemis in David’s world. He has always denied it, but I still think there is some truth there. There was something about their love for each other that went deeper than I could fathom. I am confident that David’s love for me is true and deep. I also believe that there was something ineffable between Artemis and David. A quality of love that he and I will never share.

Artemis Died

My most beloved cat, Artemis, died last night. That’s about all I’m up for saying about it at the moment, but will do a fuller memorial to her here at some point soon(-ish).

A Departed Friend

For someone who spends so much time at funerals, I’ve attended relatively few at which I wasn’t officiating. Today, I’m attending my first funeral for a friend. 

I first met Pam Webb 13 years ago, almost to the day that she died. We first met at Rosh Hashanah services at Havurah Shalom in 1995. I was just finding my way back to Judaism and was slowly exploring options. Pam informed me that I “should” take the adult education class being offered. In fact, I suspect she informed me that I “would” be taking the class. Pam was a force of nature, and tended to give very concrete and directive advice. 

During a bone marrow replacement, Pam wanted a project to keep her mind off of the chemo. It was at about this time that Eva and I were remodeling the house. Pam was an architect, and decided to take on our remodel as something to keep her occupied in the hospital. Pam spoke for the house. Eva and I would talk about what we wanted out of the remodel, and Pam would speak of what “the house wanted.” Mainly, this consisted of making sure we weren’t doing terrible damage to the feel of the house. She always brought a certainty to the discussion, however, giving me a feeling that the house had some sort of spirit with which she was communing. Needless to say, the final design was both functional and beautiful, incorporating elements that a less creative architect would have said were not possible within the space limitations.

When Eva and I went off to Philadelphia, Pam was there with words of wisdom about couples moving for one partner’s career. When we started CubeSpace, Pam was available with advice, referrals and reality checks. After we opened, she took part in a multi-artist exhibition, displaying her fused glass. 

Pam was always full of ideas and projects. She was always heading off in some new direction. She was never daunted by barriers, and always sought ways around them. She kept more balls in the air than I could imagine. 

I will miss Pam’s energy and her wisdom. I will miss her presence. Her memory will be a blessing to all of us who knew her.

A Memorial To Diana

Our cat, Diana, died yesterday. We had her put to sleep because it was all we could do for her. It was time, and I have no doubts about it  being the right decision. She was ready. Nonetheless, it is hard.

Diana was with me for 14 years. I acquired her (or vice versa) during the weekend of July 4th, 2004. She was never what you would call a typical cat. When young, she loved to play fetch with some foam rubber  balls. As she grew older, she became more interested in seeing if she could teach the humans to fetch the balls, dropping them farther and farther from whomever was throwing the balls for her.

She wanted affection on her terms…which usually meant just as I was falling asleep in bed. She would come up to us and tap me gently with her paw to get my attention. Usually she would start by tapping on a hand or a shoulder, but if I didn’t respond to that, she would tap my nose or eyelids.

Diana was named for the Roman Goddess. She entered my household when she was 3 months old as a companion for Artemis (who was then just over a year and a half). Her name, on entry, was Tango, and she’d had a somewhat hard life. She was living in a tiny studio apartment with 2 humans and 3 or 4 other cats. In contrast, my much larger studio, with just myself and Artemis, seemed luxurious. She was tiny at the time. In the evenings, after work, I would come home and lie down on the couch to watch a baseball game. She would climb up on me, snuggle in the crack between my bicep and my chest (from the armpit to the elbow) and sleep. She was so tiny that all of her body would fit just between my armpit and elbow.

She grew, and became somewhat stand-offish. Eva and myself she could take or leave. However, there were some friends whom she allowed special privileges. Neither Eva nor myself would ever have been allowed to flip her upside down like this.

Artemis adopted her and treated her as her kitten, grooming her and taking care of her, which was a good thing, because Diana couldn’t really keep herself properly groomed. She just didn’t care that much for her appearance, though she was beautiful. For years, Artemis would groom her, and Diana would let her. Sometime, around the last 5 years or so, Diana decided she was too old to be groomed by Artemis, and she didn’t want to be bossed around by Artemis any more. As a result, I spent every more time cutting dreadlocks out of Diana’s coat.

She wasn’t always the most elegant cat. She had medium length hair, which got pretty hot at times. So she would sometimes sit in positions which were not the most elegant.

Diana was a brave cat, most of the time. Dogs didn’t phase her. In fact, for the year we had a dog (Snowball–named by a 7 year old, not us), she terrorized the dog psychologically. She would casually saunter between Snowball and her rawhide bone. Diana had no interest in the rawhide bone, but it flipped Snowball out, so Diana started to do it deliberately. It took us forever to catch

on and figure out why Snowball would suddenly start barking. Diana also loved to perch atop Snowball’s kennel and peer down into it.

Diana loved thunderstorms, and would happily watch lightening with me, no matter how loud the thunder was.

Diana did, however, have two mortal enemies: The UPS man and the doorbell. For reasons known only to Diana, the UPS man was terrifying. Not Fed Ex, not US Mail, just UPS. She could distinguish the sound of a UPS truck from half a block away. She tell the difference in sound between the UPS truck and the Fed Ex truck. And she would scurry away at her fastest speed. The doorbell was also scary. People at the door were okay, but the doorbell itself was terrifying. She was a strange cat.

Diana was not particularly motivated by food, which meant that we often struggled to get her to keep weight on. Note, here, Diana deigning to eat, if it doesn’t inconvenience her too much. She didn’t have any foods she particularly loved, and tended to prefer dry food to wet food.

Chewing on plastic was always a favorite pastime. She loved the heavy-weight plastics, like those found in ziplock baggies, but she was flexible. Any plastic bag we left hanging around she would be delighted to pattern with her teeth marks.

Diana had a close relationship with Artemis for most of her life. They would hang together, sleep together. They were usually perfectly happy hanging out together, though sometimes Diana did create a bit of trouble. She would at times hunt Artemis’ tail, or do other things to try to provoke her sister (not biological sister, but definitely how I thought of them).

Diana love to hide in small spaces. She would find a favorite hiding place, and use it for all it was worth. Whenever I moved, Diana would find a spot in the new house and stay there, sometimes for days. Usually it was a spot I just couldn’t find.

Diana was a wonderful cat. We will miss her terribly. She has been a part of my life for almost all of my adult life. I’m not sure what life will be like without her. I will miss her. I’m pretty sure Artemis misses her. I know Eva misses her.

Length of Days

I’ve been thinking about the length of days in a lot of contexts recently. Whether it’s the length of daylight, the amount I can get done in a day, or the number of days allotted us before death, I seem to be encountering the issues.

I was driving home from Salem on Friday night last week, watching the last light disappear from the sky. It finally became dark enough that I couldn’t really tell that the sky was at all illumined by the sun at 10:10 PM. I came out of CubeSpace yesterday after closing, at 9:05 PM, and it was still really light. I haven’t opened CubeSpace in the dark in over a month. There is just tons more light in the day than there used to be. Yay, Light!
Somehow, the longer days aren’t resulting in me being able to achieve radically more. The number of hours in a day, and more importantly, the number of hours in a days when I can work effectively, seems to be about the same. Which is frustrating. I am getting a little more knitting done (I just finished the second sock of a pair that I’ve made for myself–pictures to follow), but in terms of real work, not as much is getting done as I would really like. So I’m going to try to step up the pace a little over the course of June, because over July and August, I suspect it will be more difficult to get work done, what with people being on vacation and all.

Finally, I’ve been doing a lot of funeral-type work this week. A funeral yesterday, memorial prayers tomorrow. Death has this way of focusing one on what really matters. Is it the day-to-day, or the big picture issues that matter more. Does it really matter if I get that phone call made, or should I spend a little more time with family? Unfortunately, in the longer-term, making the phone call may enable more time to be spent with family. Somehow, the simple comparisons never are.

I am increasingly aware of the fact that I am again. I was keeping track of a baseball game via the internet the other day, and I realized that the only player on the field who was my age or older was one of the pitcher…and that he was a knuckleballer (you can throw a knuckleball into your 50s–it’s a pitch that takes much more skill than athletic strength or stamina). Yet one more marker of my aging.

Yet as I age, I also feel myself becoming more competent and comfortable in who I am. My body may not be what it was when I was 25, but I’m happier with who I am.

Funeral for a Good Man

After last week’s sadness over the death of someone about to be 22, it’s almost a relief to be doing a funeral today for a 53 year old man. Most of the time, 53 seems very young. This week, a little less so.

I often find that I am doing funerals for someone I didn’t know. Most of the time, I have a little sadness of never having gotten to know this person who is being described to me so lovingly. Occasionally, I’m relieved never to have met a person who sounds like they were particularly difficult. And sometimes, I truly feel a loss of not having know the deceased. Today’s funeral is one of those. He would a truly good man, who made a difference in the world. He used a position as general manager to give people chances, to help them make good lives for themselves. He was a man almost out of another era, who believed in loyalty and integrity.

At times like this, I feel the loss a little more viscerally. A little more painfully, and a little more personally.

The eulogy is easier to write, because there is so much that is wonderful to say, but harder to deliver, because the sense of loss to the world is so palpable. Right now, I am between the writing and the delivery.

I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. Funerals are among the most meaningful work I do. Usually not the easiest. Definitely not the most fun. But deeply meaningful and fulfilling. I always feel privileged to be let into a families feelings for there beloved who has departed. I am humbled to be allowed to speak the depth of their feelings for someone so important, though I did not know him. And I pray that I may be adequate to their trust.

A Sad Rabbi

Sometimes, I’m running hard enough that I don’t really have time to emotionally process what I’m doing. This week has been like that.

There was a very difficult death in the community this week. Someone much too young. An unexpected death. Someone about to graduate from college and begin his life.

I knew it was a terrible tragedy, but it wasn’t until this morning, when I had my first opportunity to sit and knit in three days, that I really felt it. I’d felt his mother’s pain, and that of people who knew him, but until this morning, hadn’t really felt any of my own pain.

My pain in nothing compared to those who knew him well, those who loved him. But I can’t ignore it either.

At times like these, I begin to feel like I’m dwelling in the sad section of the universe: the part which is filled with pain, tears, anguish. It’s far removed from the neighborhood where weddings take place, filled with joy and laughter and possibilities. Love is constant in both areas, but in one it brings joy, and in the other sadness.

My role, as rabbi, is at least as important in the sad parts of life. Probably more so. It is fulfilling to be of service. But it is hard. And sometimes, some days, I wonder how I’ll do it. How will I be present the next time I meet with a family who have just lost a loved one. But then, when I do, I’m not meeting with “a family who have just lost a loved one,” but rather, I’m meeting with a specific family, mourning a specific loss. And somehow that specificity, the uniqueness of that family’s loss will draw me into their lives. And I will be their rabbi.

I am a rabbi to be there for people in the hard times as well as the good. The hard times are full of spiritual growth and meaning. But they also take their toll.

A Whirlwind Tour Through Life

There are weeks when my attention is more on CubeSpace, and there are weeks when my attention is more on the congregation (there are also weeks when my focus is more on knitting, but we won’t talk about that now). This is very much a “rabbinic week.” I am simultaneously preparing for the death of a congregant, a bar mitzvah and a wedding (the wedding isn’t actually members of the congregation, but definitely falls into the category of rabbinic work).

Moving between these three lifecycle events is a bit of a challenge. They, needless to say (and yet I’m going to say it anyway), have three very different moods, and the rabbinic role is different in all three. For a family awaiting a death, the rabbi is present to offer solace and comfort. For boys becoming bar mitzvah (it would also be true for girls, but in this case it happens to be boys), my role is more that of coach and teacher. For a couple about to be married, I serve as counselor and master of ceremonies, helping ensure that the wedding comes off as they want it to and that they are able to be focused on what matters when the day arrives.

Each of these three events are enormously important occasions in the history of their respective families. These are, literally, once in a lifetime events. It is vital that I bring an awareness of that to my conversations with families. At the same time, part of my role is to be able to say, “what you are feeling is normal,” based on the fact that I am in close contact with each of these events several times a year. I attend 5 – 10 weddings a year. Perhaps half as many funerals, and a far more variable number of bar or bat mitzvah celebrations. My role at these events is not that of the mourner, or the bride or groom, nor the young adult entering the Jewish community, but to be deeply empathetic with those people, and to lead them through it.

Which brings me back to this week. Trying to shift gears so quickly between joy and sadness is confusing. The one constant between events is that they are stressful. But I feel like I’m beginning to experience some emotional disjuntion. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that highlights the emotions of each events.

Being present at lifecyle events is one of the reasons I became a rabbi. It is one of the most rewarding parts of what I do. When multiple events coincide, as they have this week, the rewards are highlighted, but I’m also much more aware of the potential for becoming emotionally drained. I am not yet running on empty. I cannot imagine officiating at a funeral without grieving with the family, or a wedding without celebrating. The real question is, what do I look like the day after. I guess we’ll find out next week.

Colliding Worlds

I am pursuing two very different careers simultaneously. I am working both as a congregational rabbi, and as the owner of a business that provides workspace and community for people who would otherwise work from home. Most of the time, these two activities seem to blend well. After all, both are about creating and sustaining community. Some days, the combination creates a distinct sense of disjunction in my life.

Yesterday evening, I went from figuring out how to set up a LCD projector to display Game 1 of the World Series to rushing out the door and going to the hospital in Salem to be with a congregant and family in the final hours of his life. At one moment, I was concentrating on how to make the connections between a VCR which I was using as a tuner, an LCD projector and a pair of computer speakers which were powered through a USB port, and the next I was on my way out the door and heading for the hospital as quickly as I could.

I know there are those who would regard sitting with the dying as one of those duties that unfortunately comes with being a rabbi. Although I find it to be emotionally painful and hard, it is also one of the reasons I became a rabbi: to be with people in times of extremity, to be able to help them through the hard times, just as I help them to celebrate and sanctify the good times. Death is one of the places where a rabbi can make a difference, offer some comfort. I find it taxing, but fulfilling.

Yet I cannot help but be struck by the contrast between that and what I do with the rest of the day yesterday. Other things I did yesterday included: showing people around CubeSpace and talking about how CubeSpace might solve some of their problems; restarting the server to install updates; setting up a room for a meeting; and a variety of other mundane tasks that make up the normal workday. For most of the people I interacted with yesterday, the day will be just another day in their lives. A month from now, they will be unable to distinguish it and remember much about it. For the family in the hospital, and for myself, yesterday will hold a unique place, sacred and sad. It will not drop into obscurity in the stream of time, but rather will be one of those days which remains distinct as the years pass on.

There is nothing new noting the dichotomy between everyday life and death; there is no unique insight in noting that life goes on for all the rest of the world, even as an individual dies and life is brutally interrupted for the family and friend. Nonetheless, in my dual roles I feel like I have a somewhat unique perspective, drifting between a place of death and mourning and an office environment where it feels oddly inappropriate to speak of anything quite as personal as death.

I try to bring my whole self to both of my careers. In general, I feel like I succeed. People at CubeSpace know (for the most part), that I am a rabbi. People at the congregation know that I own a workspace. I feel like I am fundamentally the same person in both places: I feel like I treat people similarly regardless of which hat I am wearing. Yet very occasionally, the two halves of my life feel disjointed, and cannot be made to reconcile. And when that happens, I seek to make meaning out of this disjunction by writing about it and sharing it.  Thank you for being willing to share this with me.