| LifeLines |

Silent Mourners

By C. Saphir | September 2, 2020

***If ever there was a situation of b’makom sh’ein anashim, hishtadel lihyos ish,* I thought to myself, *this is it***

In the close-knit chassidic community in Ramat Beit Shemesh that my family and I belong to, my ten-year-old son, Shimmy, was best friends with another boy, a lively, energetic kid whom I’ll call Yitzi.

The cheder that Shimmy and Yitzi attended was situated on our sleepy, dead-end street, and all the other boys on the block attended this cheder as well, so they all knew each other and played together. But Shimmy and Yitzi had a special bond — it was always Shimmy and Yitzi, Yitzi and Shimmy.

One Monday afternoon, the quiet of our residential street was shattered by the wailing of sirens as ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks converged in front of the building where Yitzi lived. Curious to see what was going on, Shimmy hurried out onto our porch and called down to one of his friends below on the street to find out what the commotion was about.

“Something bad happened to Yitzi,” the friend called back up to him.

Shimmy raced downstairs and down the block, where a throng of kids had already congregated and were watching as paramedics moved a limp Yitzi onto a stretcher and into an ambulance.

Later that day, we heard the horrific details of what had happened. Yitzi had been playing with a rope, which somehow became wound around his neck, choking him. He was found unconscious and rushed to the hospital, where he was pronounced in critical condition.

From the moment Yitzi was taken away by ambulance, Shimmy opened a Tehillim and did not stop davening and crying. Minyanim were convened in shuls throughout the neighborhood for people to say Tehillim, and, instead of playing, the children sat and said Tehillim as well. The next morning, when I entered Shimmy’s room to wake him, I saw that even in his dreams his lips were murmuring words of Tehillim.

While the adults in the neighborhood were whispering, “Is Yitzi going to survive?” the children were innocently asking, “When is Yitzi coming home?” They could not even conceive of the possibility that Yitzi, who was always so alive, might never come home.

The parents of Yitzi’s friends did not know what to tell their kids. Some put on a confident face and assured their children that Yitzi would soon be discharged from the hospital. Others gave vague answers regarding his prognosis.

Early Friday afternoon, the terrible news came: Yitzi had passed away.

Trained as I am as a psychotherapist, I knew I had to be the one to tell Shimmy what had happened. Still, professional training notwithstanding, informing your own young son that his best friend just died is a gruesome task.

Not wanting Shimmy to hear the news from the other kids, I hurried out to the street to find him, and I told him that I needed to talk to him.

I led Shimmy down the block to my office and said, in a low voice, “Shimmy, I have something very, very difficult to tell you.”

Grasping immediately what it was I was about to say, he screamed, “No, Abba, no! Don’t tell me!”

I seated him on my knees, waited for him to calm down somewhat, and then told him the bitter news.

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Comments (4)

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Rivka Wolitzky
5 years ago
Reply

I have never written to a magazine before, but after reading this story I felt that I must.
Since I am part of a support system for married alumnae of Neve Yerushalayim, I serve as a surrogate mother, sister, good friend, or a shoulder for these brave women who have chosen Yiddishkeit over the familiar secular environment they grew up in.
I was very impressed with the way this trauma was handled. I cannot agree more with the narrator. Things experienced during childhood form us into the adults we become, and childhood traumas can remain with us forever, often taking years to process and resolve, if ever.
Besides the immediate and obvious benefits of his deeds, the lifelong benefit that he gave these boys cannot be described. Instead of waiting for them to sit in his office (and pay) he chose to heal their neshamos from the start.
My father a”h, a Holocaust survivor, always taught us that if you support a sapling when it begins growing, it grows straight and tall. When it is already a tree it is much more difficult to straighten. Yasher koyach to the author for grabbing the opportunity.
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Goldie Grant
5 years ago
Reply

Thank you for a fantastic magazine which is always thoroughly enjoyed.
The Lifelines story this past week was a truly refreshing story. It was heartwarming to read how the narrator supported his son, and his classmates, too, with working through the tragic situation they faced.
By holding the levayah proceeding he supported the children with
a) Acknowledging the loss — talking about what had happened, explaining what a levayah entails.
b) Processing the pain — letting the children express their narrative of the story, validating the experiences and allowing them the space to cry.
c) Adjusting to a life without the deceased — forgiving and asking for forgiveness, thus closing the door to their previous friendships and then later instituting actions l’illui nishmas Yitzi.
Working within the world of grief and bereavement, I have been shocked to encounter so many real life “Avrumis” — adults who have experienced disenfranchised grief leading to unresolved grief. Embedded ideologies around grief often results with unhelpful advice, such as “grieve alone” — in this instance, leaving the children while the parents attended the levayah, or “be strong and move on” — related to “the less said, the better.”
The narrator performed chesed in its truest form; actions which Yitzi’s classmates will have benefitted from tremendously both then and in their future lives.
May Klal Yisrael only know of simchahs and may we all be zocheh to a kesivah v’chasimah tovah.
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Freda Birnbaum
5 years ago
Reply

Every so often you publish an article that makes me say, ‘this article is worth the price of the year’s subscription’ (and Mishpacha is not cheap). The story “Silent Mourners” is the most recent one.
The father in this article had it so right, and had the fortitude to resist the more conventional ideas of what he should be doing. (Of course he could still pay a shiva visit!) Perhaps it indeed was Hashgachah pratis that he didn’t get a ride right away and had enough time to reflect. The lasting results in the boys’ lives are so worthwhile.
In the early Shacharis davening, it says of several key mitzvos that “a person enjoys the fruits in this world, and the principle remains for him in the world to come.” I have often thought that the principle remains here, too, and in this situation, it will reverberate for a very long time in the lives of these boys.
With deep appreciation for the example the author of this piece has set,
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Z.R.
5 years ago
Reply

Although this is a subject I seldom discuss publicly, last week’s LifeLines compelled me to put pen to paper. I am in awe of the incredible psychotherapist who recognized the importance of the grief process in children. You see, I too was a “Silent Mourner.”
When I lost my brother to sudden and unexpected circumstances at the age of 12, the focus was entirely on my parents and their grief. During the shivah week, I was told several times, “be strong for your parents.” To me, the 12-year-old child, that translated as pretending I was absolutely okay, because how could I add more pain to my already-suffering parents. And so strong was I, burying any feeling and emotion deep inside, so that my parents and everyone else sure that I was “fine,” “resilient” and “best left to move on.”
Yet as the author correctly recognized, grief needs to be processed properly in children too. It doesn’t just go away.
For me it manifested in several ways. The first was the constant fear of my family members dropping dead. Then, when I became a mother, there was the intense and overwhelming sense of panic each time one of my children came home a bit later than expected. Another trigger came many years later when a friend lost a child in similar circumstances. Then I simply fell apart, and it took me months to recover.
I am blessed to have a very special mother and husband, who recognized this (albeit a bit late!) and 23 years later, with their encouragement I too “sat shivah” properly for my brother in a therapist’s office.
Parents, please don’t read your child’s nonchalance as resilience. Know that the grief is there, hidden deep beneath the surface, and when triggered it comes bubbling up throughout their life. It is your responsibility to encourage your child to open up, express their feelings and, go through a proper grieving process with a therapist in just the same way you do.
And to you “Silent Mourners” out there, don’t let your childhood trauma haunt you. Don’t ever think it’s too late to deal with. Trust me when I say it is liberating to properly grieve your loved one — even if it is 23 years later.