Of Blessed Memory

On the 28th of September, 2011, the 29th of Elul, 5771, my daughters' Oma, my grandmother, Ilse Hannah Tuteur Wolff, died after a long battle with breast cancer.

My words are still few, my memories are many. My heart is tired, but grateful for 87 years of a full life and for the unconditional love given to me all of mine.

Grandma Ilse chose to end her chemo and to begin hospice a little over three week ago. She was with us fully until a day or two before her passing. She died at home, surrounded by her family: her two great grandchildren, her five grandchildren and our spouses, her three children and theirs, and her husband, Jonas Wolff, her partner in life of 67 years.


When I heard it was time to come on Monday, I baked Zwetchegenkuchen and the challot for the chag, and carried them with me to the house. My resilient Aunt Margaret made us all both Chicken soup and Vegan Vegetable as we waited on Tuesday. My amazing brother enlisted our cousins in creating a feast for all of us for Tuesday night.

Early Wednesday morning, Oma died. I climb out of bed, drive over through the dark, and hold my father. I called who he asked me to call. I kiss Oma and hold her hand, her body still so warm from the pneumonia's fever. Erev Rosh HaShanah is this night, with the Chag and Yom Tov and Shabbat to follow. We cannot bury her until Sunday. I have to sing tonight and tomorrow. I hurry back home so that David can go and open the restaurant. The world never stops even if our hearts wish it to.

I bring Nomi to school. Dina and I return to the house. Levine's Memorial Chapel has gently come and taken her body. Rabbi Matt has come and gone. Dina and Mom and Rabbi Eleanor and I sit at the table where my Aunt Carol and my Daddy have lovingly, carefully, set out their father's breakfast, his New York Times, his morning tea.

Opa comes slowly into the room. We are all respectfully quiet. Each of his 90 years is etched on his face, his steps sinking on the wooden floor.

Then, my Dina calls to him, "Hi, Opa! Opa, I eat egg! Here! I share! Here! Smell flower! See?"
And he smiles.

Now the house fills with deli from Gershon's and shwarma from Phoenicians and ziti and eggplant parm from Homestyle. Rosh HaShanah comes and we share challah together, all of us together. Our whole family.

To me, my challah tastes bitter despite its sweet honey. What a thing to say, what a thing to feel. But my heart is so full I cannot touch it, for fear that if pierced it will burst.

Sunday comes and with it the funeral. Tears flow. Moments stand out. Cecile and Lily and Wendy bring food to our home, to sustain our home whenever we need it. Lee and Bonnie press cool water in my hand, remind me to sit, not to host. I smooth the coffin's lid with my hands, as if touching a blanket, kissing the wood as if to sleep.

Nomi tosses her two rocks into the grave, shaped as hearts, one marked Peace, one marked Love. We meant for her to set them beside, to mark the grave as is our way, but my four year old wants to plant these in the Garden with Oma, she tells me. Oma is with God, she reminds me. Shhh, Mama, its alright, and she and Dina pat my cheeks, echoing my own words back to me.

What does God sound like, mama? Where is God? What does God feel like? God will take care of Oma, mama. You will see Oma again when you die but I do not want you to die for a long, long time, mama.

Lox from Kosher Price Chopper. Raiding the CGOH cream cheese supply, just a 1/4 of a block for two bagels, mine and Lil's, as ours' has quickly run out. Hugging Jan tight. Laughing with Dotty Meyer. Sitting, sitting, not hearing, not seeing. Nursing Dina. Surrounded by the ebb and the flow, the touch of hands and lips to empty cheeks.

Shiva comes to my grandfather's home and the food overflows its banks. I move methodically, wrapping, packing, storing, freezing, leaving behind the contact info for Bethesda House with my aunt, for who can eat so much food?

Today, I am home and perhaps the world will begin again. Today, I am hollow, for I too have overflown my banks. David is home and my girls are too. Dina is talking now, and Nomi is orchestrating the building of a Great Armada of Boats out of the boxes and blocks in their playroom.

To live is to one day die. I tell myself that if I was to die at the time of my own choosing, at the age of 87, holding David's hand, with my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren holding his, surround by such a community of love, that loved me and my family so very much, I would be truly blessed. I know our family is truly blessed, and that my grandmother died at peace, with all her goodbyes said and all her love given.

So may it be for all of us. Baruch Dayan Emet - Blessed be the Merciful Judge, who allows us such beauty in life and death.