We know that grief — so raw and bloody — is a traffic accident you want to look away from. Because it may be you next time, and you try to make sense of how short life can be

I

’ve passed many milestones that come with raising a family:

bris, upsherin, bar mitzvah, graduation, wedding. They flowed by as married life gained speed and momentum, a river of plans and anticipation, excitement and joy.

Until I reached the new milestone I’ve just passed, one I wished to never know of — aveilus for my father. I’ve sadly joined the ranks of the yahrtzeit candlelighters, the Yizkor sayers, the people who knowingly speak about “the year.”

I’m now a fatherless child.

At 46, you’d think I would’ve already understood the concept of loss. When I married, I was blessed to still have two sets of grandparents, as well as my husband’s. Their losses hurt terribly, but don’t compare to the howling wilderness of missing my father. The void is huge, the mixture of emotions a never-ending maelstrom of sorrow, regret, shock.

How can this be? How can the sun keep shining, the world keep turning? Let me off! Too soon!

We wanted to give you more nachas, more simchahs! You enjoyed hosting so much, upgrading the menu so “people would enjoy,” carefully crafting and polishing each word of your erudite speeches.

How can my Tatty be gone?

Memory is a funny thing. When I talk to my younger siblings about my father, they remember a very different father than I do. They recall a father fully immersed in juggling a large family, parnassah, and elderly parents, with little time to spare. I remember my young father, tall and strong, who still had time to row boats in Morningside Park, entertain his younger brother and his kallah, swim vigorous laps in the bungalow colony pool.

And what I remember most is something so subconscious I never knew it was there. It was the feeling that in a world that was sometimes frightening to a sensitive little girl, my father’s broad shoulders were the wall at my back, always protecting me.

Tatty, I visualize myself as a little girl of three, holding your big hand and crossing busy Coney Island Ave to the tiny grocery where we bought bread and milk every Sunday morning. I hear you asking for a loaf of bread, see the owner placing it into the slicer, the machine both fascinating and frightening me as it divides the bread into uniform slices. I see you taking the small end crust and spreading it with butter, precisely, evenly, perfectly smooth, because my capable father did everything well. Your warm and strong hand meant everything was good. That hand meant I was safe.

There is not much comfort for aveilim in the early stages of aveilus. We stoically bear the sad looks, the inane advice, the invasive cause-of-death questions because we know that death makes people uncomfortable. We know that grief — so raw and bloody — is a traffic accident you want to look away from. Because it may be you next time, and you try to make sense of how short life can be.

Permission to pamper

Sarah Glazer

How is it that some women can give and give and still feel full while others are on the verge of collapse? The answer, asserts relationship educator Julie Lurie, is self-care. How this oft-neglected activity can rejuvenate you — and help you revamp your relationships

Sarah Glazer

“Whenever I hear a client going on and on about her husband, complaining about what he doesn’t do for her, the first question I ask is about her self-care,” says Julie Lurie, a relationship educator and coach based in Chicago, Illinois.

“Is she getting enough sleep? Exercising? When’s the last time she treated herself to something nice? Or went out with a friend? There’s a basic formula in marriage that when our self-care goes down, our tolerance for our husbands also plummets.

“So many shalom bayis issues start with lack of self-care,” continues Julie, who runs marriage seminars and shalom bayis vaadim, as well as teaching kallos and lecturing regularly. “If we’re not taking good care of ourselves, we have no fuel to put into our marriages… or anything else. I could teach my clients a hundred ways to increase shalom bayis, but if they don’t have good self-care, they won’t be able to implement any of them.”

For many of us, self-care is a novel concept. We’re so used to putting others first — our husbands, children, parents, the next-door neighbor who just had a baby, the choleh who needs a ride to the doctor — that we rarely get around to meeting our own needs.

“I once went five days without a shower because I always found something else I needed to take care of first,” shares Aliza, who was blessed with three children in quick succession. “I was so busy running after the kids every morning that I didn’t eat breakfast until my husband walked in the door to relieve me.

“I quit my job after my third was born to be a better mother, but I was far worse. I was impatient, angry, over-reactive. I spoke to my rebbetzin and she stressed that I needed more time for myself, but I dismissed the idea. I didn’t see the connection. It took me years to finally see there’s a direct correlation between self-care and my ability to be a happy wife and mother.”

When we don’t take care of ourselves, we’re more prone to a profusion of problems, including exhaustion, stress, sickness, insecurity, weepiness, and burn out. “The main problem is that we end up living life reactively,” says Julie. “If our child does something we don’t like, we don’t have enough energy to think about how we want to ideally respond. We don’t have enough fuel to make a decision that’s in line with our vision of who we want to be. We’re working on autopilot because we’re so emotionally and physically drained.”

“Whenever I forget about self-care, I pay for it,” says Esther, a mother of six, including 17-month-old twin girls, one of whom has Down’s. “The days I don’t take care of myself, I’m terrible at taking care of everyone else.”

What Brings You Joy?

“Some people think self-care is a secular idea,” says Julie. Indeed, it’s lauded by many secular thinkers, including Laura Doyle, author of the best-selling book, The Surrendered Wife. But self-care is actually a Torah concept. “In Shemoneh Perakim, the Rambam talks about how, after working hard, we need to recharge. He says that both externally and internally, we need rest and rejuvenation,” Julie teaches.

“You can also look at Derech Hashem. The Ramchal divides all our positive actions into two categories — mitzvos and things done out of necessity. What’s considered a ‘necessity’? The Ramchal defines it as anything that gets us ready and able to serve Hashem, so long as it’s within halachah.”

This idea is expounded upon by Rav Yosef Yehuda Leib Bloch in his sefer Shiurei Daas (ma’amar “Pales Maagal Raglecha”). “He writes that anything within halachah that allows a person to feel the strength of his capabilities, that motivates him and brings him joy, is included in the category of ‘necessity.’ This includes, Rav Bloch says, assorted physical pleasures, as well as going for a walk or spending time with friends — each person according to what he needs.

“Not doing so, Rav Bloch stresses, will cause a person to lack the chiyus, life energy, that’s needed to serve Hashem,” Julie says. “Rav Bloch even goes so far as to call this person a ‘choteh al hanefesh,’ one who mistreats his soul.”

Self-care is a necessity because it makes you a better giver — “which is what we want more than anything else in the world,” says Julie. “Look at Chava. Why was she so tempted by the fruit? Rashi says it’s because the snake told her, ‘you’ll be like Hashem, a creator.’ In Alei Shur, Rav Shlomo Wolbe writes that this is the deepest desire of every person: to be a creator. He explains that even a small act of chesed is an act of building and creating. When we do chesed, we’re completing what’s lacking — and that’s essentially creation.

“But here’s the part no one tells us about,” Julie continues. “In order to give, we need to fill ourselves up. That’s why I stress self-care so much.”

Taking care of yourself means eating three meals a day, showering, brushing your teeth, dressing nicely, going to the doctor, getting enough sleep. “So many of us ignore these basic needs,” says Julie. “I remember Rabbi Leib Kelemen speaking about how if you’re going to be compassionate toward others, you have to be compassionate toward yourself first. What if your son walked in on Friday afternoon famished, and asked for lunch. Would you ever reply, ‘We have a really busy day, so we’re skipping lunch.’ No! You’d never speak to your son that way. So why do we sometimes speak to ourselves that way?”

Beyond the fundamental needs of the body, self-care is about doing things that make you feel “full.” What these will be depends on your personality, age, and culture. During certain stages of life, talking to a friend once a day might be critical, at another stage, it might be talking less. “When I was 20, grocery shopping by myself wasn’t on my self-care list,” laughs Julie, a mother of five.

As a homework assignment, Julie pushes her clients to write a list of 25 self-care activities. “Some women draw a blank after number three,” says Julie. “They’ve neglected themselves for so long that they can’t even remember what they enjoy doing. The mere process of writing the list can be an act of self-discovery. They get to know themselves all over again.”

While food often makes a repeat appearance on many women’s self-care list — indulging in a favorite treat, eating out, baking, experimenting with new recipes, leafing through cookbooks — there are countless other self-care activities. For instance: playing an instrument, knitting, swimming, listening to a shiur, window shopping, reading, davening, writing, sewing, polishing your nails, running, organizing your closets, drawing, saying Tehillim, going out or speaking with friends, dancing, singing, having one-on-one time with a parent or grandparent, painting, or going on a date with your husband.

For Esther, exercise is a pivotal part of her self-care. But one Sunday, after a long day with the kids, what helped her recharge was a little solo trip to Target. “I came downstairs that morning thinking to myself, I’m going to be a great mom today,” recalls Esther. “But then one kid had a high fever. A twin was throwing up. It was freezing cold and we were stuck at home. Everything felt so chaotic and overwhelming. That night, I left the house and ended up at Target. I was strolling the aisles by myself. No one was demanding anything of me. I had space to think. And my mindset totally shifted. I felt happy. Suddenly, a high fever, a vomiting kid — these things weren’t such a big deal. I could handle it.”

Timing also matters. “My three big kids get out of school at four and I used to work up to the last minute, racing to get everything done before they came home,” says Aliza. “I was so exhausted, that instead of being attentive and warm, I was unable to deal with normal childhood antics. Now, half an hour before my kids come home, I resist the urge to finish that one last thing and I take care of myself — sometimes it’s eating a small meal, sometimes listening to music or reading. I devote the time entirely to myself, so I’m refreshed and smiling when I pick up my kids.”

The first step is creating the list. “The second is committing to it,” says Julie. Every single day, you should be doing three — or more — activities from your self-care list. And while you’re doing them, have in mind what you’re trying to accomplish through this self-care, whether it’s to be a more conscious parent or to improve your shalom bayis.

We do get that you can’t understand. We’re actually happy for you that you don’t know the horror of seeing your giant of a father reduced to fitting into a box. We’re glad you don’t know how terrible it is to watch him being lowered into the ground on a bitterly cold day and weeping because you fear he will be as cold as you feel.

And then there are those who do understand. Who have had shattering losses of their own, yet are one of the first to come to the levayah to be there for you. Who show up at the shivah even though they aren’t obligated to. Whose eyes are deep wells of sorrow, and say, “I know this pain.” Eyes that somehow give comfort when there isn’t any to be found. Who don’t say much more than “I’m so sorry.” And when you think about it, it really is the perfect thing to say. Maybe the only thing to say.

I know that one day, when I can bear to look at pictures of my father, I’ll want to look at them again. I will be able to honor him not only with sorrow, but with joy. I’ll wake up without wishing for a dream of him, even if it’s a figment of my sorrow and not a message from beyond.

But right now, I miss his hand holding mine, crossing the street, always keeping me safe.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 649)