I get a call at 10:12 p.m on Tuesday, October 30th from my dad and my heart sinks. He says: “Zaida died at 10:10 p.m., two minutes ago. You’re the first one I called.”
For a second I feel tears come to my eyes, and then a rush of relief. My Zaida was 92, and until a few months ago in amazing health. During the last few weeks of his life, though his mind was as sharp as it had always been, his body was declining. This was not the way he would have wanted to live.
Watching him die was probably the hardest thing I have ever experienced. The night before his death I stood beside his hospice bed in his apartment and held his hand telling him “You can go Zaida, we will be okay” over and over again. Every time I said it, he stopped breathing for a few seconds. I knew the end was near.
Less than 48 hours later we buried my Zaida, at a plot that lay next to my Bubbe’s. As I walked with the other pallbearers, carrying my Zaida’s body, it still hadn’t hit me. The funeral director came up to my family and asked which one of us went to Drexel. I said I used to, and he let me know that they had buried my Zaida in his Drexel Hillel kippah as that was the one he most frequently wore to morning minyan, and then the tears came, but quickly left. There was a week of shiva to plan, and a broken-hearted daddy to take care of.
I don’t think it really hit me that he had died until a month later when we were taking his many pictures off the walls of his condo, preparing it for sale. My whole life, my Zaida lived less than ten minutes away from me in North Dallas. If I needed some guidance or a special freshly-baked gluten-free oatmeal cookie, I would just call my Zaida up or send him a text, and within minutes I would be on his striped fabric couch (the same couch where he hid the afikoman every year), snacking and soaking in his wisdom.
As I took the photos off the walls one by one I couldn’t help but reflect on the stories they tell. There are images of me as a child with long brown hair wearing a bow and my favorite sparkle dress, and then others of me as a teenager with jet-black angled hair and my “Cops Love Me” t-shirt. There are also photos of me deep into my battle with anorexia, where I’m just skin and bone.
My struggles, triumphs, and growth are all documented on the walls of his condo. These pictures represent more than just memories. They represent the unconditional love and pride my Zaida had for me, whether I was struggling or rebelling, smiling or scowling.
So many memories happened at my Zaida’s condo. As I stared at the empty table I pictured all of us sitting at the table in our assigned spots. My aunt talking about politics, my brother and cousin talking about movies and video games, and me pretending to know something about both. Who was going to make turkey on Thanksgiving, matzo ball soup on Passover, and brisket on Hanukkah? As the oldest grandchild, I felt the need to make sure the passion he had for learning and Judaism stayed a vital part of our family.
I miss my Zaida every day. I miss his hugs, and his smell, and his light, but I don’t miss his love or his presence, because I feel those in my heart every day. I feel his embrace every morning at minyan when I put my tallit on and take my seat behind the chair he sat in for over twenty years. I see his soul shining in the Shabbat candles we light on Friday nights. I hear his voice in my head tell me to keep fighting every time I get frustrated. “You and me, we are warriors,” he says.
Zaida shared his warrior skills with me throughout my battle with anorexia and after I was raped in college. He made a deal with me when he was diagnosed with cancer that he wouldn’t stop fighting his disease if I promised not to give up fighting mine. I feel his kisses every time I touch the mezuzah he gave me for my bat mitzvah that hangs on the door frame of my bedroom.
As Hanukkah comes to a close I sit here, content smelling the brisket that I am cooking (for the first time ever), to ensure no one has a brisket-less holiday. Tonight we will light the candles in my Zaida’s old menorah. We’ll say the blessings with his voice joining in from wherever he may be.
Jourdan Stein is a senior majoring in women’s spirituality at Texas Women’s University. In her free time she enjoys taking guitar lessons, watching Fresh off the Boat on Hulu, and spending time with her dog, Sadie.
Featured image credit: Pixabay.com|FlanellKamerasFilm.
