Tag Archives: Yizkor

February 9, 2026 · 7:30 am

Long Grief

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.

2 Comments

Filed under American Jewry, Family history, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism

Tagged as , , , , , , , ,

May 16, 2016 · 6:20 am

Sacred Memory

Martha Hurwitz (Barre, MA)

This past Yom Kippur I was invited by the Rabbi of our synagogue to share memories of someone I loved as a segue into the Yizkor service.  I immediately thought of my mother because my memories of her are happy ones and I credit her for any good and admirable qualities I may have. 

However, I heard an internal nagging voice that said, “What about your father? What memories would you share of him?”  This was not a question that I wanted to hear or to answer.  My father was not an easy man to love or to live with.  Personal relationships and sharing emotions were very difficult for him.  He needed to be the center of attention and the one who was always right.  He believed that women should take a supporting role and made it clear that, while I should aspire to become educated and “polished,” it was in order to become a suitable spouse to a professional and successful husband, not to showcase any accomplishments of my own.

In the 20 years since I became a Jew, I have struggled with the liturgy surrounding memory of loved ones because it seems to be about the excellent examples of those who have died and how their memories are a blessing.  Clearly, memories are not always positive or, at best, may be conflicting and difficult, but in a Jewish context are considered sacred.  How can memory be a blessing or be considered sacred when it still causes sadness and confusion? I waffled back and forth, trying to convince myself that it would be just fine to go with the positive and glowing eulogy that I had prepared when my mother died.  In the end, I gathered my courage and decided to risk being vulnerable and share my struggle with the memories of my father.   I calmed my fears by assuring myself that I certainly could not be the only one who wrestles with this question.

 As the Rabbi prepared the congregation for Yizkor, I sat in a heightened state of nerves, barely able to absorb what he was saying. Fortunately I managed to retain his statement that alav ha-shalom is meant as much (or perhaps even more) for the living than the dead.  With shaking voice and trembling knees, I shared my struggle and memories of my father.

In the end, of course, it was a powerful experience both for me and for the members of my congregation.  It is clear that I am far from the only one who struggles with memory and how to integrate it into the sacred liturgy.  I ended my thoughts with “Dad, I forgive you and I love you.  Alav ha-shalom.” My father died in 2001, but it was not until that day, 14 years later, that I was able to begin to mourn for him. 

Since then I have thought a great deal about the liturgy surrounding memory and what may be the purpose of such ritual. I have begun to see that it is not so much to suggest that memory by itself is sacred or that those who have gone before us were perfect. Rather it is an opportunity to take all memories, difficult or not, and place them into a sacred space.  I know there are some memories that may be too painful and negative to ever be resolved in this way.  But remembering within the context of Jewish ritual and tradition is a way that sadness and confusion can be eased and even those who were flawed and left hurts behind can rest in peace within us.

Martha Hurwitz grew up on a farm in upstate New York and was raised in the Society of Friends (Quakers). She married into a lively Jewish family in 1983, converted to Judaism in 1996, and has enjoyed learning and studying Torah ever since, both in study groups and by reading various sources at home.  Having always enjoyed writing, she recently started a blog called “The Golden Years Revisited,” (www.cultivatingdignity.com) to explore and share the experience of getting older and poke fun at some of the myths and stereotypes regarding old ladies!

Leave a comment

Filed under American Jewry, Family history, Jewish identity

Tagged as , , , , , , ,