Dead Friends and Mentors

I merited to employ a midwife who, in a previous career incarnation, had toiled as a hospice nurse. She was fond of claiming that the wondrous, indescribable energy that bursts forth at birth, likewise, slips away at death. She found both transitions awesome, as should we.

Most of us don’t witness births other than those of our children, or, on occasion, those of our dearest friends and loved ones’ children. However, most of us are somewhat familiar with death and dying.

BH, b’ayin tova, I’m in my sixties. That means that some of my peer have already passed to Olam Haba. Similarly, that means that the men and women who mentored me in college and in graduate school are in their eighties, are older than that, or are dead. Ditto the publishing concierges with whom I’ve worked.

As per friends, all deaths are difficult for survivors. Some are subjectively more tragic than others. For instance, a decade ago, a young woman who was Missy Older’s dear friend and who was, simultaneously,  the fiancé of Older’s Dude’s best buddy died suddenly of aneurysm. She was in her twenties.

When my family, vacationing in the Galilee, received the call about her passing, we thought the caller was joking. Quickly, we sobered.

Since then, various of my husband and my cohorts lost parents. Accordingly, Computer Cowboy and I attended funerals and made shiva calls. With our closest pals’ families,

we marked shloshim.

Meanwhile, some of those companions began to die. Often, a heart attack became their way through. Other times, their route was cancer.

I recall attending the fifth anniversary yahrzeit of an especially close friend. I hugged her children. I hugged her sisters. It did not seem as though half of a decade had passed since I was part of her cemetery procession.

More recently, just days ago, actually, another friend was called home. Like the woman whose sisters I had hugged mere months ago, this friend, too, had suddenly been pulled from this world. What mores, she was younger (!) than me.

I do not understand death. Sure, we have scriptures such as Kohelet to guide us, to direct us toward living meaningfully, yet, in the spans between daily waking and sleeping, it’s too easy to forget our purpose only to, has v’shalom, regret our lack of footing on the derech eretz when our time, here, is completed.

I recall when, more than twenty years ago, when my father suddenly died, I was transformed from someone who left the prayer hall during Yizkor to someone who stayed. Grief takes  processing (stay tuned for news of a book on this topic). Fortunately, we have “The Mourner’s Kaddish” to sanctify Hashem and to declare, publicly, that we’re not in control of our own or others’ death. Even so, grief hurts.

Then there’s the matter of vocation associates. When we live appropriately, careers are a means to enable us (to fund) a Torah life, not an ends in themselves. Livelihood is a resume virtue, not a eulogy virtue (Teller). Consequently, our interactions with our occupational peers is of less importance than our relationships with our friends and family.

Nonetheless, the exit of such persons can be profound. Last month, another link in my business chain broke. Albeit he was weeks away from turning eighty and had generations not only of family but also of young academics who appreciated his efforts. All things being equal, though, I will miss that kind and brilliant man.

The same held true for me when, roughly fifteen years earlier, my graduate school advisor died. Similar to the recently passed scholar of my acquaintance, my former advise-giver was not only renowned for his  research but also for his good nature. Too few professors are both compassionate and accomplished.

As well, when I learned that another senior research colleague would, permanently, no longer be accessible to discuss matters of professional interest, I experienced loss. She had encouraged me on my research path when I was a very young “member of the guild.” I hope she had found her life to be fulfilling.

In addition, when I left the classroom to write books, I made friends with publishers and editors. Sadly, some of them, too, have died. Certain of those gatekeepers would chat about illness in our communications; I was forewarned about their going away. Others dropped dead.

Whereas it’s a great blessing to gain days and then years, the longer that we live, the more likely it is that we understand the significance of the departure of cherished others. Despite sayings to the contrary, no one is replaceable; every person is unique. When a soul enters the World to Come, they necessarily become absent from this reality.

The essence of these changeovers are beyond human ken; they’re literally and figuratively breathtaking. Still, we survivors become bereaved; we grasp that we’ll never again have the possibility of hugging a specific dear one or the chance to share footnotes with an esteemed coworker. The expiry of friends and mentors appropriately pains us.

Source:

Teller, Rabbi Hanoch. Aug. 2021. “In Heaven They Don’t Want Checks; They Want Receipts.” youtube.com/watch?v=18iqZC-lc14. Accessed 20 Aug. 2024.