“What happened? What symptoms did he have? How do you know it’s not a virus?” I was babbling now. “Are you sure? That’s a terrible thing to say without knowing for certain.”

“We took him for a second opinion and they gave the same diagnosis.”

“Were they reputable doctors? Because some of them will just parrot whatever you tell them.”

“You’re having the same reaction we all did,” my brother said.

“And you managed all this while I was away?”

“We didn’t want to disturb your vacation.” At my crestfallen face, he explained, “What could you have accomplished from three thousand miles away, besides worrying?”

At another time and place, I might have thanked him. But I was no longer thinking straight enough to do it. All I knew was that I needed to see my father again. I needed the reassurance that nothing had changed, that he was the same resilient, youthful man I had known all my life. Being in his eighties did not constitute being elderly. No, he was my father, my children’s adoring Zeidy, the go-to Yid for all things chesed: loved by everyone, forever young.

Flashbacks to my childhood raced through my mind. I thought of those Friday nights when my father would lie down with my brothers after the Shabbos seudah and fall asleep before they did. He would talk in his sleep. “Shmelkeh, gi nisht in der vald.” [Shmelkeh, don’t go into the forest]. When I asked him about it in the morning, he would move on to another topic, opting to shield us from his horrific Holocaust experiences. When some family members once planned to travel to Beregszász, Hungary, his hometown, I asked him if he wanted to go with them. He got very serious. “Oib di kedoshim zenen nisht dort, oif vos gi ich?”  [If the kedoshim are not there, why would I go?]

I raced back into the house to visit my parents again. My father seemed the same dignified patriarchal figure as before: learning with one brother, on the phone with another, and greeting me with his infectious warmth, as though he hadn’t seen me just a few minutes earlier. It was all so heartwarming. But something inside me collapsed. I knew I could no longer run to my father’s embrace to allay my fears; I would have to carry the emotional reserves for both of us, a responsibility I was wholly unprepared for.

The shock took several long days to settle in. I was desperate for answers. My emotions ran the gamut from tears to numbness to anger to, finally, gut-wrenching grief. Deep down, I knew this was part of the life cycle. No one lived forever.  But that did little to appease my pain and sadness. This was my father we were talking about, my family’s lifeline. We had so many milestones yet to share. Who would lead our glorious Pesach Sedorim, the Shabbos kiddushim every week after shul? Who could replace his daily phone calls inquiring about each child’s and grandchild’s welfare? How could this be — we were nowhere near the ad me’ah v’esrim goalpost!

We had to contend with the unspoken fear of the Angel of Death, whom I’d heard was good at his game. Well, I wasn’t about to let him have his way without a fight. I tried reconciling this impending shift in my family, but my thoughts were stuck on repeat. How could this happen to him, a Holocaust survivor? He’s such a kind, erlicher Yid, so many people will be lost without his help. It was too much to bear. I needed a listening ear.

I phoned an acquaintance who had recently dealt with a similar medical crisis. In lieu of reassurance, she outlined how she had come to grips with her new reality. On the hardest days, she would make two lists: What I Must Resign Myself To and What I Can Change. In the end, her points culminated into one list.

Her message resonated clear. We can change little but our attitude, and if we turn our fears to Hashem, He will answer our prayers. All we need to do is ask for His help.

At last, I found my true confidant. I talked to Hashem in my prayers, in my head, even in my sleep. I surrendered my fears to Him.  It was incredible! I could stay quiet and feel a sense of resolve. The loneliness that had seized me was dissipating, replaced by Hashem’s embrace. My prayers took on a life of their own.

Several days later, as I stood davening Shemoneh Esreh at Minchah, I suddenly felt my body freeze. I could not utter a single word; I could not move. My neshamah was crying — I could feel huge tears flowing into my gut. My body was on autopilot; it was as close to an out-of-body experience as I’ve ever had. Hashem was letting me know that He was with me every step of the way, but that ultimately, the giving and taking of life was at His choosing, not mine.

That Shabbos as I recited Av HaRachamim, which references our past oppressions and Hashem’s promise to punish our enemies, I was once again reminded of my father’s resilience. After enduring the atrocities of Auschwitz — beatings, starvation, illness, death marches, losing his parents and many siblings — he never questioned his Maker. Not then, and not now.

My father spoke with his rav and went in for his scheduled surgery the following week.  I watched as my father stoically entered the hospital, a lion among wolves. I watched as he transferred to the surgical floor. I watched as he was informed of the surgical risks and signed the appropriate documents. I watched as he was told that they would need to shave the area of his head that was being operated on, and I watched as he asked if that included his beard or peyos. When they responded that it did not, I watched him thank the orderlies profusely, and I could only imagine the images it conjured — of inmates at the Auschwitz death camp having their beards forcibly shaved by the Nazis. Yet in spite of it all, my father never balked, complained, or even worried. He knew a successful outcome would come from the Divine Healer.

During the seven-hour surgery, the surgical team came to see us intermittently and share updates. He’s doing well; he’s holding on; the first twenty-four hours will be critical. We were informed that my father’s post-op recovery would take time, that patients recovered consciousness at different rates. For some, it could be several hours. For others, it could take days. My siblings and I began to coordinate round-the-clock shifts while my father was in recovery. He must have had an inkling about our concerns, because a short while later, to our great jubilation, he woke up! His first words uttered were, “Chasdei Hashem.” A miracle of miracles!

These stunning nissim were not lost on my siblings or me. Hashem had given back our beloved father, mentor, counselor, and madrich. My father’s courage and fighting spirit were a testament to who he was. Yet I could not fathom what must have gone through his mind when he learned of his diagnosis. Were the doctors direct? Mild-mannered (who was I kidding)? After surviving heinous Holocaust atrocities that tested his resilience and emunah, here he was again, fighting for survival against the odds. And yet my father chose life and lived every minute by its blessing.

Barely three weeks after his return home post-surgery, my father made a siyum haShas in the presence of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Joy emanated from his face as he led the siyum with the gusto befitting a baal simchah, followed by a catered meal with all the trimmings. Standing proud, he recited each word of Kaddish with such depth of emotion that it was as though he was in a personal audience with the Ribbono shel Olam. In that moment, he was no longer battling cancer; he was in a spiritual realm devoid of physicality and mortality.

Did he have a premonition that he would not attend the Grand Siyum HaShas several months later? If he did, he didn’t let on.

My father took great pains (literally) to make the trek to shul every Shabbos. I was the lucky one to accompany him each Shabbos morning to the shul’s entrance; my brother would take over from there. Throughout the walk, which had gone from ten minutes pre-surgery to 30 minutes now, my father persevered, proud. The fact that his shtreimel weighed a hefty five pounds and sat just above his healing surgical scar did not seem to bother him. Nor did the treatments he endured daily; he entered the treatment center with staunch bitachon. Never was a word uttered about his pain; never did he question Hashem, accepting his lot b’ahavah.

And so Hashem gifted us with ten months of my father’s continuous progress. Days were filled with simchah: My father was honored with sandekaus at a great-grandson’s bris, he danced at a grandchild’s wedding, and he continued learning with his chavrusa of forty-five years. My parents’ home was abuzz with all of us coming and going, coming and staying.

Then, an oversight by the surgical team landed my father back in the hospital. By the time he was correctly diagnosed, he had to be transported to New Jersey for specialty care. After a 30-day regimen that cleared the issue, he was transferred back to a Brooklyn rehabilitation center to regain his strength. The joy of having my father on the mend and back in our midst was palpable.  We, siblings and grandchildren, once again serenaded Zeidy with chatter and Torah. We began the countdown to his homecoming.

Hashem had other plans.

Within 24 hours of my father’s arrival at the rehab center, a CNA wrongfully flattened his bed and he aspirated. Five days later, on Shabbos morning, my father’s holy neshamah returned to its Maker as he joined the millions of saintly neshamos in Gan Eden. His tikkun olam was done, his hard work in This World completed. He had outwitted his oppressors many times and lived his life in full recognition of Hashem Hu HaElokim.

I remember waking up that Shabbos morning in good spirits. My daughter-in-law had given birth to a boy several days earlier. We had spent Friday night in celebration at the shalom zachar. I was filled with immense gratitude for this bundle of joy, who would receive same unconditional love that I had been granted for all of my life. I could hardly wait.

I sipped my coffee and held my siddur close by to begin Shacharis. Yet something held me back. Uncharacteristically, I kept pushing off my davening for later. Little did I know that Hashem was giving me a sign that now was the time that He wanted to bring Reb Zev ben Yekusiel Yehuda closer to him. I would learn later that afternoon, when I walked to the hospital, that my father had passed away several hours earlier.

My father’s levayah was on Motzaei Shabbos, Erev Succos.  We sat shivah for a half day. During that time, my grandson’s bris was being planned for the second day of Yom Tov. Little Zevi would be zocheh to carry on his great-grandfather’s name and legacy, just three days after my father’s petirah. A beautiful, yet bittersweet simchah.

Facing my new reality of life without my father, I realized that I had been struggling with a fear of the unknown for many months, and it was now my turn to emulate my saintly father’s emunah. My father’s relationship with me was always unconditionally accepting and loving. I did not need to prove myself worthy of his love; it was there for the taking. He worried about us, he provided for us, and he wanted little in return.  What I could finally do for his neshamah was lead by his example. He was meticulous about matters bein adam l’chaveiro. He supported families, yeshivos, and organizations generously, loaned countless people money — and never cashed their repayments. He provided counseling to couples, assisted rebbeim, and hosted roshei yeshivah, family members, and even strangers.

I looked Heavenward and thanked Hashem for choosing me to be the daughter of such a pious role model, and for the strength to see past my grief and sadness to internalize his middah of chesed and pass it forward. The clouds were moving along, forming abstract shapes. I thought I saw a cloud form a smile. And I smiled back.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 923)