Guilty as Charged
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J
ewish guilt may be a part of every Jewish mother’s DNA but when a mother has lost her child guilt becomes a burden that’s difficult to bear.
I remember Jewish guilt back when I was a “normal” mother. It used to hit me at the end of each day as I made the rounds looking down at each of my six sweetly slumbering children. (And how sweet they looked in their blissful repose when they were down for the night and the rest of the evening was all mine.)
That was when the guilt struck hard and fast. Why had I not found the time to do that project with them? Why had I not helped with homework a little more or taken them outside to play longer than the few minutes I’d felt able to spare? Why had I not made a more healthful supper than macaroni? On and on it went Jewish guilt at its finest.
But then I found myself looking down at a child — not in blissful repose but in eternal repose. The guilt struck hard and fast another overwhelming emotion to add to the pool of a situation so profoundly wrong. And the guilt did not go away or fade or get better. It grew and grew and grew. As time went on and I recalled more and more there were more things to feel guilty about not less. So many things I could have done differently had I only had the chance had I only known.
Why had I not made her oatmeal for her on her last morning when she’d asked me to do so? I should have dropped everything and prepared it for her instead of saying “Sure I’ll do it soon just let me get the kids out to school.” Because then to my eternal regret she went and made the oatmeal herself.
And even though as she passed by me on her way to the microwave bowl in hand I opened up the cupboard and added in a drop of maple extract just the way she liked it would never be enough because asking me if I could make her breakfast a totally out-of-character request from an independent 18-year-old was the last thing she ever asked me to do. And I had asked her to wait without realizing then and there that something was terribly wrong. How could I forgive myself — ever?
It didn’t end there. There was the day I was driving in the car chewing gum (driving in the car the alone time was especially painful for years after Perel Rena died and very often still is today) and it hit me like a battle axe. How could I chew gum? How could I have ever chewed gum over the course of Perel Rena’s last year when she suffered from TMJ — jaw pain exacerbated by chewing gum? I’d been rude enough to chew gum in her presence when she could not and would never again chew a piece of gum. Logical? Illogical? It doesn’t matter. I’ve never chewed a piece of gum since that day and I never will. I can’t forgive myself. I can’t get over the guilt.
The list went on. Why had I never let her roller blade (even if I had thought it was too dangerous of a pastime for any of my children)? Why had I never taken her skiing (even if I thought it was too expensive to outfit six children and myself for a skiing expedition, which would have included: ski rental, ski lift tickets, proper ski gear like goggles and warmer clothes, lessons, travel time, and maybe even an overnight stay)? What would I not give to spend money on her now!
Why had I never taken her to Eretz Yisrael? Spent more time together with her? Listened harder? Talked more? Focused? Laughed? Loved? Lived? Why had I not known and appreciated and done everything differently? Everything! From the day she was born.
I’m not the only one like this. Probably every parent who has lost a child feels intense guilt, and their guilt is nearly all just as illogical as my own. Because I know that never saying no and never focusing on anything other than making Perel Rena happy would have resulted in a relationship so overwhelmingly claustrophobic and warped that no one would have called it a good thing.
But that realization didn’t make the problem go away. In fact, as time went on and I delved deeper into every mistake, every missed opportunity, everything I had ever done or not done, I was awash in guilt, day and night, awake and asleep. And the worst part of it? There was no going back, no fixing, no undoing any of the damage that grew and grew in my mind.
While I knew my guilt list was not reasonable or the slightest bit logical, still I was busy trying to make amends the only way I knew how — with the children I had left. I made breakfast for anyone in the family who asked — and for anyone who did not ask, as well. I bought roller blades for all of my kids, and even a pair for myself. I took the kids on a skiing trip. We took a family trip to Eretz Yisrael. In short, I didn’t want to take a chance that I might live to regret depriving one of my children from a meaningful life experience — or that I might miss out on the chance to make their lives better in some large or small way. And so there I was, scrambling to make up for lost time and fill every moment so that I would never feel guilty again.
But never is a long time — too long. And the sheer enormity of the task to remain guilt-free is as impossible as asking me to hold my breath longer than a few minutes. Now that the frantic race to make up for lost time has somewhat abated, I’ve discovered a more forgiving side to myself. I am realizing, much to my surprise, that maybe I wasn’t quite as bad as I made myself out to be.
These days, I find myself able to focus more on the good than the bad. I can remind myself about that drop of maple extract I put in Perel Rena’s oatmeal that morning, and that I did not say no. I said soon. I can appreciate now that had I given her everything her heart desired, she would never have become the incredible person she was at the end, because saying “no” is just as important as saying “yes.” Had I not been able to say “no,” I would have had even more to feel guilty about.
And so despite the roller blades, ski trips, family trip to Eretz Yisrael, and individual breakfasts, I’ve at least been able to create a balance. A unique blend where loss and guilt and appreciation and blamelessness, struggle to maintain equilibrium as I walk the tightrope of life trying to never look down and never look back — only forward — one step at a time.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 515)
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