By her own account, my mother is not a religious woman. She does not read the Bible, know Hebrew or put much stock in Jewish rituals. She has been known to comment on my own degree of commitment to Judaism in anxious, hushed tones, the kind she uses when someone in our family is seriously ill.
So it was with both amazement and awe that I witnessed her response to the painful and inevitable death of her closest and oldest friend, Eleanor, from cancer. In those long six months, she met the task of loving and caring for her friend with instincts and behavior that are deeply Jewish.
She knew from the start how to provide comfort care, the kind that in its early stages took the form of a pot of chicken soup and a brisket big enough to feed the neighborhood, but sadly ended with the stroking of a barely conscious forehead covered in sweat.
She understood intuitively that visiting the sick, or bikur holim, often meant sitting quietly by Eleanors bedside, asking nothing, just giving her friend the sense that she didnt have to bear her sickness alone. And she helped create shalom bayit, a calm presence in the house, through her hugs and advice when Eleanors adult children became stressed and argumentative over what to do for their dying mother.
We talked often during this time about the questions that plagued her; theological questions that became real through the process of participating in the last stages of life of her dearest friend.
Why did Eleanor have to suffer so much? Who should be the one to determine the time of her death: the doctor, her family, Eleanor, G-d?
What words of comfort could she speak to her dying friend about the significance of her life, about the children and grandchildren she would leave behind?
We covered much more territory than simply pondering those questions. Talking about Eleanor gave me a chance to find out more about my mother her values, needs and concerns, her own fears of death. It was a gift that Eleanor gave to us, a time to talk safely in the third person about a very first person matter.
The rest of this article is available in the IJN’s print edition only. Contact Carol to order your copy at (303) 861-2234 or email carol@ijn.com.
