Old Age

 "Crabby Old Woman" By: Phyllis McCormack 

What do you see, nurse, what do you see? What are you thinking, when you look at me A crabby old woman, not very wise, Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes, Who dribbles her food and makes no reply When you say in a loud voice, I do wish you'd try. Who seems not to notice the things that you do And forever is losing a stocking or shoe. Who, unresisting or not; lets you do as you will With bathing and feeding the long day is fill. Is that what you're thinking, Is that what you see? Then open your eyes, nurse, you're looking at me. I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still! As I rise at your bidding, as I eat at your will. I'm a small child of 10 with a father and mother, Brothers and sisters, who loved one another. A young girl of 16 with wings on her feet, Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet, A bride soon at 20 - my heart gives a leap, Recalling the vows that I promised to keep. At 25 now I have young of my own Who need me to build a secure happy home; A woman of 30, my young now grow fast, Bound to each other with ties that should last; At 40, my young sons have grown and are gone, But my man is beside me to see I don't mourn; At 50 once more babies play around my knee, Again we know children, my loved one and me. Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead, I look at the future, I shudder with dread, For my young are all rearing young ones of their own. And I think of the years and the love that I've known; I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel. Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool. The body is crumbled, grace and vigor depart, There is now a stone where I once had a heart, But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells, And now and again my battered heart swells, I remember the joy, I remember the pain, And I'm loving and living life over again. I think of the years all too few- gone too fast. And accept the stark fact that nothing can lastSo open your eyes, nurse, open and see, Not a crabbiy old woman, look closer See Me. 

A Nurse's reply "To the 'Crabbiy Old Woman" What do we see, you ask, what do we see? Yes, we are thinking when looking at thee! We may seem to be hard when we hurry and fuss, But there's many of you, and too few of us. We would like far more time to sit by you and talk, To bath you and feed you and help you to walk. To hear of your lives and the things you have done; Your childhood, your husband, your daughter, your son. But time is against us, there's too much to do - Patients too many, and nurses too few. We grieve when we see you so sad and alone, With nobody near you, no friends of your own. We feel all your pain, and know of your fear That nobody cares now your end is so near. But nurses are people with feelings as well, And when we're together you'll often hear tell Of the dearest old Gran in the very end bed, And the lovely old Dad, and the things that he said, We speak with compassion and love, and feel sad When we think of your lives and the joy that you've had, When the time has arrived for you to depart, You leave us behind with an ache in our heart. When you sleep the long sleep, no more worry or care, There are other old people, and we must be there. So please understand if we hurry and fuss - There are many of you, And so few of us.  

Witholding

 "By swallowing evil words unsaid, no one has ever harmed his stomach." -Winston Churchill

Think once, then twice.  Only then speak.

Speaking to God

"Do you know who can protest against His

decree and say to Him, ‘Why do you do such a thing?’‛ 

He who observes the commandments’‛  -Numbers Rabbah 14:6.

In a sacred relationship, we can ask questions forbidden to those who stand outside.

Yizkor

 Yizkor means “May He remember.”

G-d will always consider us.  What we ask for is not so much that G-d remember their lives but that the memory of those we loved will not be forgotten by us.

Another name for yizkor is hazkarat neshamot, recalling souls.

We recite Yizkor because we refuse to forget.  But what we recall is a choice.  We can opt to focus on their many talents and triumphs, or their deficits and defeats.  I hope that we will choose to elevate their memory and ask that they find their way into the Olam shel Emet, the universe where forgiveness reigns and the struggles of mortality are lifted. 

 

Perhaps they will even hear our prayers and be comforted that we have neither forgotten nor neglected them.

 

In reciting Yizkor we are starkly confronted with our own brief lifespan.  As we remember them, we pray that we too will be recalled with fondness.

 

We now stand at the threshold of a New Year and fervently pray that we find the blessings in our past and emerge into 5786 to become a blessing to ourselves, others and those who come after us.

 

L’Shanah Tovah Tikateyvu

Prayer for Healing

 Ana, HaShem, Please G-d, You are the Healer of all flesh.  Look upon me and have pity.  Support me in Your great love for I need You.  Send healing to me and to all Your children who suffer.  Heal my pain and renew me as in the past.  Grant wisdom to the physicians that attend me so that they may bring to me healing, swiftly.  

Hear my prayer, prolong my life and allow me to live out my years in joy so that I may be better able to serve You and keep Your word with a perfect heart.

Grant me understanding to see how this time of trial can bring me to a place of discernment and more meaningful life. Do not reject You servant, I pray.  

Hear my prayer.

The Tale

Never once did she question the loss of her husband and son.  No one heard her mention even one, “Why me?”  There was simply too much to do.  After the initial shock, there were burial plans, sending notices out to all the relatives, friends and associates.  The non-stop messages from her phone and people stopping by to drop off food and murmur words of consolation.  

The services required her full attention.  She dutifully wrote and delivered eulogies, wiping away the tears as she spoke.   The last shovel of earth did not conclude the process, it was barely the beginning.  When all that ended, there was a house to clean and a million emails and cards to answer.  It was an immense task, but she hammered away at it day after day. 

When her hands became too cramped from writing thank-you’s, there were endless bills to pay, finding all the right papers, filing them with the insurance, the lawyer and then the court.  

Of course there were the same questions, “Did you know?”  “How did it happen?”  “Were there signs?”  And the rest.  She responded to them all with the same lines that after a short while came out mechanically.  “Yes, this is terrible.  There was no warning, no signs.  Thanks for coming.  It means a lot.”

She was stalwart and determined to get everything done correctly.  So it went for months on end.

Through it all, she never threw her fists up to heaven or cursed God.  She remained silent. Unlike Job, she turned her back on faith and never looked back. 

Why should she?  They lied to her.  All of them; her teachers, faith leaders, her parents, everyone.  There was no justice in these needless deaths.  Stripped of her companion and child she could only retreat into non-belief.  If there was a God, he was heartless and cruel.  Since that left a malevolent universe the only other choice was to abandon faith.

 

Such is the story of many who have through neglect or deliberate thought have drifted from their anchor.  

What is the antidote for such a psychic unmooring?

Love.  Even if it hurts.

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Remember Me

 My dear friend,

 

I have been thinking about our conversation.

 

So much detritus lies in the dust after our lives are over.  I remember a song by Craig Taubman entitled, “Who Will Remember Me?”.  It is a powerful question contained in song thinking about dying after a satisfied life knowing that we will not be forgotten.  Yet as the song supposes, what if no one recalls us?  What if our lives are erased and no one remembers our name, how we labored, what we crafted, our joys and sorrows, our creations and missteps?  After life isn’t it a universal wish that we will be remembered?  Don’t we all hope that our lives meant something and have left a lasting imprint on the world?

 

I think of the items I have collected and saved from my parents.  There is almost nothing from my mother and some important documents that have come to me from my father.  But who will want them?  And what happened to all the things of the previous generation?  Sure, I have few photos of my grandparents and a couple of great grandparents, but I accept that even if my children take them, they will not remember who these people were as they have no personal memories of interacting with them or knowledge of their lives, much less physical contact with them.

 

Grudgingly, reluctantly, I have come to accept that the pictures and various documents will reach the rubbish heap.  There is too much for any of my kids to take and little reason for them to want them since these items do not relate in any meaningful way to their lives.

 

And yet.  These are their blood relatives, their forbears, to whom they ultimately owe their lives.  

 

To make matters worse, not only do I have these various pieces of family history I have also collected more “things” than they ever had. I have more certificates, prizes, letters, awards, degrees, cherished books and articles than they had in a lifetime.  I remember purchasing a Shas (Talmud) when I was in college. I meticulously researched the best set available, one that had a high rag content and was likely to last generations.  The tomes must weigh well over 200 pounds, and I paid a lot of money (in those days) for them.  Who will take all that?  Already my library has been significantly downsized.  Only that which is most cherished remains with me. And still….

 

My children will suffer through the same agonizing questions as they come of a certain age.  Perhaps my grandparents and great-grandparents; perhaps Moses and Abraham puzzled over the same issues.  Is this just part of the human condition?  We are predisposed to live a life that matters, one where we will be recalled and our life story told.  Except for the Sarahs, Rambams and Einsteins our life histories are swept clean by time.

 

Does anything last?  

 

The people whose lives we touched and helped will also pass away.  So even all those acts of generosity and selflessness will disappear as one generation takes the place of another.

 

On more than one occasion someone has come to me and shared how what I said to them at a time of transition in their life galvanized them to face their trial.  Each time when presented with a story like that I freely admit that I never recalled saying what they told me I said.  

 

I am warmed and comforted by those moments.  It tells me that my life has had meaning, that I made a difference to someone.  Nothing physical lasts, including us.  But something infinitely more important survives the short span of our time on earth. 

 

You have changed the world, one tiny bit at a time.  One pebble at a time you leave behind a mountain of accumulated goodness.  You leave the world in better condition.