by Pam Adelstein (Newton, MA)
There used to be much to do. Recite the Mourner’s Kaddish daily. Phone calls, waiting on hold, forms, estate management. Sorting and donating Dad’s personal goods. Panicked phone calls and texts from my mother. Explaining my status as a mourner — taking the year off from dancing at celebrations, declining blindingly joyous events that chafed against my mourning soul. Friends checking in. Feelings to process. All the “firsts” — first Thanksgiving, first Father’s Day, first birthday, etc. — without Dad.
At the three-year mark, I am relieved that these urgent and important tasks are completed. Now, less urgent, less important tasks remain. Paperwork. Boxes to sort through. When I consider tackling these, my energy wanes suddenly, and I tell myself “Another time.” Honestly, who knows if that time will ever arrive.
My acute grief has evolved into long grief — not found in a psychiatry book, and not identifiable by observing me. I am my usual self, except when I am not. I have not discovered anything to do with this long grief, except to feel it. When I see my dad’s handwriting. When I gaze at a photo of his smiling face and deep blue eyes. When I hear his voice in my head. When I repeat his words and favorite phrases. When I try to better understand who he was. When I share an anecdote about him that makes me chuckle. When my birthday nears and I experience the pang of his absence, knowing there will be no happy birthday phone call from him this year — or ever.
Since his death, December triggers foreboding, and January brings me an uncomfortable cloak of vague sadness. Attempts to shove down feelings of not-rightness are unsuccessful. And then I remember, January is when my dad died of COVID complications. When my mom called the ambulance. When his oxygen saturation was in the 60s. When he was hospitalized. When he went to rehab. When rehab called to tell me that they were doing CPR and later called about his death on day 10 of isolation. When the visit I had planned on day 11 became time I spent with his body, saying goodbye. COVID is uniquely fraught for those of us who work in the medical field and who have lost loved ones to the disease. With each COVID surge, fraught feelings resurface. Images and memories intrude in my day. A complicated facet of my grief.
The Yizkor service occurs four times a year. It is a time for Jews to remember and honor loved ones and those who have died and been martyred. We recite parts of the service privately and quietly, and other parts aloud and together. I suppose this separate-yet-together praying brings comfort to many. For me, since my dad died, Yizkor has not brought such comfort. Instead, it spotlights that my father is no longer alive. Participating in the Yizkor service reminds me viscerally of the year I stood daily and recited every kaddish, feeling alone with the dissipating sound waves of my voice. In the time “before,” I took for granted the carefree privilege of leaving the sanctuary during Yizkor to shmooze in the hallway. Today I am part of those who remain in the service. I am a newbie. Most of those in the service are more experienced at this than I, their loved ones having died many years ago. During the private, quiet portion of the Yizkor service I wonder whether others feel like an old scar is pulled away. Do others feel tethered to a similar long grief?
Pam Adelstein is an active member of her Boston-area minyan. She lives with her husband and has two grown children. She enjoys hiking, yoga and kayaking, and works as a family physician at a community health center. Writing is a way for her to express the emotions around her work and personal experiences, connect with others, and be creative. Her writing can be found at Pulse Voices (search Pam Adelstein), at WBUR, Doximity, and STAT.
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