September 18, 2010 | 10 Tishrei 5771

Last March, just like the previous March, I made three trips to Minneapolis to see my mother, of blessed memory. On the second trip, Mom said little, as I recall, and none of it related to me or to anything in the moment. On the last trip, Mom was unresponsive and eventually died.

But during that first trip to Minneapolis, well, there was a moment I will never forget. It was the one moment of clarity for Mom. It was the moment she effectively said, “Goodbye” to me. No, Mom didn’t actually say “Goodbye.” But what she did say was the very last thing she ever said to me, as her son. It’s what she wanted me to hold on to.

I had arrived at the nursing home and found my mother in her wheelchair in the dining room. I took Mom out into the hall to speak with her. Visually, she wandered.  I couldn’t hold her attention.  She spoke a few words, but none of them made any sense.

And then came that moment I’ll never forget. My mother looked me straight in the eye and said to me, “How’d you get to be so cute?” That was how my mother said goodbye to me. From somewhere deep inside the abyss that had become my mother’s mind, a momentary spark created an unforgettable memory.

The moment quickly passed. But in that fleeting flash, Mom shared the bedrock of her relationship with me. That’s how she said goodbye. I will always treasure that moment… just as I will continue to be thankful that I was able to speak with my mother one year earlier when she was still lucid.

At that time, as she expressed her wish to die, I could hear it. I could validate it. I could tell her that I loved her and that Dad, my sister, Debby and I would be okay. I could tell her goodbye.

I have watched loved ones say goodbye to someone who will soon die, and I have seen that person respond. I have gathered families around the bed of their dying loved one.

We took each other’s hands, I offered the words of the Vidui prayer and, together, we said the Sh’ma. Those moments were part of the process of letting go, of saying goodbye. They are among the most sanctified times I have ever shared with people.

It is the experiences I have just described, those with my mother and those I have shared with families that leave me saddened when I see families that are unable to be open with each other as death approaches.

Sudden, unexpected death cheats loved ones. They never have an opportunity to say what is in their hearts. They are cheated by circumstances and can do nothing. But I am truly saddened when circumstances are otherwise…when family members could speak openly with each other, and they don’t do so. In those instances, they cheat themselves by denying themselves a painful, yet profound experience.

The Talmud offers two stories about the impending death of Rabbi Judah the Prince that are instructive. I prefer to read them as two parts of one story.

Rabbi Judah’s life experience as it concerned death was really an anomaly some 1800 years ago. At that time, most people died suddenly or a short time after having contracted a serious illness; but not Rabbi Judah. Earlier in his life he had been deathly ill and then recovered. He knew what it was like to approach death. He had the opportunity to think, feel, and plan.

So now in the first story, perhaps the first half of the description of Rabbi Judah’s approaching death, he calls his children together and speaks to them at length. He gives them detailed instructions. Then, at his request, Rabbi Judah’s colleagues enter. Again, he gives them specific instructions about who should succeed him.

In neither instance do we hear the voices of his children or the sages. We only hear the voice of a man who is confronting the approach of death and the words he feels he must offer.

In the second story (Ketubot 104a) Rabbi Judah’s condition has worsened, and he is unable to speak. Neither his children nor the sages enter his room. Only an aide who cares for Rabbi Judah’s needs sits with him.

Rabbi Judah’s colleagues declare a public fast and stand outside his window while offering pleas for divine mercy. They could not bring themselves any longer to sit with Rabbi Judah - to speak to him, to reassure him that they would continue their studies and leadership in his absence. The rabbis could not bring themselves to accept the reality that Rabbi Judah was going to die. Their absence from his room was an expression of their fears. Their prayers for God’s intervention rang hollow.

Rabbi Judah’s aide saw this wrenching situation unfold before her for hours.  She decided to act…to bring comfort. She went up to the roof of the building and threw a jar down to the ground. As it shattered, the rabbis stopped praying…and Rabbi Judah died.

Those stories share much with us about what ought to happen between a dying person and his loved ones prior to death. I’d like to focus on the second story in which things that should have been said were never said because of denial or discomfort or a fear of upsetting Rabbi Judah or his devoted colleagues.

Rabbi Judah’s story is really our story. Many of us can’t face the approach of a loved one’s death. Unlike Rabbi Judah’s colleagues we may not actually avoid our dying loved one. But effectively we do so as we deny the presence of an overwhelming reality.

We talk about anything with our loved one…except about the approach of death. We may even seek to provide the dying person with hope – “You’ll get better.” Yes, there are times when dying people need to be in denial until the day they die. But that’s not usually the case. Most of the time, the person recognizes what is happening. To remain silent or to give false hope or change the subject if he raises it is to leave him alone, potentially with his fears. By the time Rabbi Judah’s aide acted, I would imagine he was either unresponsive or unable to be comforted.

Before our loved ones or close friends reach that stage, we must be with them. Comfort and closure begin with physical presence. Look at Rabbi Judah’s colleagues who couldn’t handle their own discomfort well enough to be able to see their friend and say goodbye to him.

They are us – those of us who rationalize our absence when a loved one or friend is dying. We say, “It might be a burden if we visit.” We are afraid and worry about what to say, if we do visit. And so we avoid visiting.

Begin by being present – go visit. Be attentive and respond to what you hear.  And if there’s a period of silence between you, that’s ok.  Holding hands also communicates. When we speak, we must speak words that seek to bring comfort and, if necessary, resolution and peace: Thank you. I love you. Forgive me.

We must let loved ones know they can share anything they desire with us and that we will support them. We must reassure them that we and other loved ones will be alright because of what their love and actions have instilled in us. And we must speak of our love for them even when we no longer know if they can hear us.
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It has been just over five months since my mother died.

Last year I told you at this time how blessed my sister and I were to have been her children. She was the most important single presence in shaping the people we became. But now I can tell you that how Mom and I interacted during the year plus of her illness was also a blessing, a benediction to a life well led.

Yes, it was a blessing that the two of us could openly speak about her desire to die and that I could reassure her. It was an incredible blessing when Mom, in a brief moment of clarity, said goodbye to me in a manner most befitting our relationship.

And yes, it was a blessing, albeit a painful one, when my father, sister and I let Mom know that we would be alright after her death.

I wish that Rabbi Judah had heard those words. When it becomes necessary, I hope that you will be able to share them and yourself in a loving and reassuring way with your loved ones and friends.

Holy One …

As we approach this sacred Yizkor moment, we recall the actions and the love of loved ones and friends no longer present that shaped us. We are grateful to You for the blessing of their lives and for their gifts that continue to influence us. In Your world, we know that other loved ones and friends will die.

As we inevitably experience the approach of death with some of them, we ask that You gird us with strength and with a calm, loving presence so that we might truly share with each other…

for in those moments we seek the loving and reassuring peace that only Your presence can provide.

Amen.