My heart sinks as I see that the dates of our vacation and the performance coincide

In the winter of 1992, my zeidy, Mr. Moshe Jay, lay terminally ill in a hospital in London, England. My mother, his only daughter, was raising her family some 3,560 very far miles away in Toronto. All of us children felt the tension of my mother’s frequent travels. She was torn between two places. It was a miserable time.

We loved our Zeidy and Bubbe. So much of our childhood was spent in London, it was like a second home to us. We traveled there at least three times a year, often staying for weeks at a time. We also traveled to other locations, such as Miami, to be together with our beloved grandparents.

My Zeidy lost almost his entire family in the war (only one cousin survived). He went into adolescence with a close, caring extended family and left it as a starved, beaten teenager incarcerated in Auschwitz. He was haunted by his memories, but he never let them affect him. He overcame his trauma with love.

He loved his children and grandchildren so strongly, it radiated from him. One of my fondest childhood memories was arriving in his house on Danescroft Avenue in Hendon straight from Heathrow Airport, where he promptly threw me in the air and hugged me. Combined with jet lag and motion sickness, it didn’t end well. But I’d take that feeling of nausea any time, as it was infused with love.

Toward the very end, the doctors made it clear that Zeidy’s cancer had spread and there were no treatment options. At that point, my mother was traveling to London every other week. We all knew time was short.

I was in fourth grade and slated to perform in a school play. My mother realized last minute that one of her trips would coincide with the play. She would simply have to miss my performance. Not that I had much of a role — two lines of singing and a short line here and there.

But when my Zeidy found out, he insisted she stay to watch me perform and catch a flight later in the week. He knew she may not make it for the end; he was risking not being with his only daughter when the malach hamaves came. But my feelings mattered to him more than his.

Fast-forward 23 years, and I’m planning a vacation to Florida with my husband. We book the dates, we count down the days to December 15th for a rare getaway. We make arrangements for our kids, book a room in a nice hotel.

And then a letter comes from our girls’ school. Our daughter’s class is putting on a performance. My heart sinks as I see the dates of our vacation and the performance coincide. I call the school to see if changing the date is an option, but they explain that the pianist is only available then.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 669)