Kaved & Kavod
According to the Hebrew calendar, it was the date my Dad died back in 2023, so my Mom was observing what’s called his Yahrzeit – Yiddish for “time of year.” She had gone to services at synagogue, specifically so she could recite the mourner’s prayer with others in the community, and was now having dinner with my oldest brother and me. Since his passing, after 65 years of a marriage that seemed to grow stronger and closer every decade, Mom hasn’t been the same. To be clear, she still shows flashes of the extraordinary spirit that people associate with her – a joie de vivre epitomized by her ongoing attendance at Zumba classes at 95 years old! – but when her best friend left us, so did parts of Mom. Understandably.
She’s lost weight, which she didn’t need to do, and begun using a walker, which she did, but protested anyway. She’s become much more fragile physically, and much less able to hear, which has impeded her cognitively & socially. His absence is a loss she carries every day. It’s pervasive, and it’s heavy.
During dinner, we tried a new app – it transcribes conversations in real time, and it’s color coded to show who’s speaking. “Look, Mom! That blue question is from me: ‘How’s the wine?’” “Oh, I see,” she exclaimed, “it’s good – thank you!” It seemed to work. Kind of. She was able to follow the conversation, but not really participate in it. She was present, but at a distance.
After dessert, because our brother Steven was out of town, I took Mom home. Though we pay somebody to help, Steven’s effectively her full-time caretaker. There’s nothing he doesn’t do for her. He helps with daily medications, including a plethora of pills and special eye drops; he prepares meals; he drives her all over town; he keeps watch on newly-installed cameras to be sure she doesn’t fall; and he monitors and translates all communications ranging from voicemails and text messages to doctors’ reports.
During the twenty-minute drive, I kept trying to engage with her. “I’m sorry,” Mom kept sadly repeating, “I just can’t hear you.” But no matter how slowly I spoke, or how loudly I shouted, it just didn’t seem to work. So I resigned myself to driving in silence – though I made a point of holding her hand, so she could sense we were together, even if we were alone in our thoughts. When we got to Hedwig Lane, we slowly made our way from the car, up the steps and into the house. There, our long-time housekeeper’s husband met us to transition.
“Goodbye, Mom – I love you.” I kissed her gently and closed the door behind me –- thinking how does Steven do this, every day and every night. It’s a lot. And it’s heavy.
On the return trip home, I made the mistake of turning on the news. The soft-voiced anchor talked about elections in two countries I love, where deceitful, hate-filled rhetoric impedes constructive dialogue, and where demonizing anyone who disagrees isn’t just political sport, it saturates social media as welcome entertainment. There’s rarely nuance, instead there’s just noise. It’s hard on the ears, and it’s heavy on the heart.
Inscribed on my late father’s tombstone is one of his favorite Rabbinic quotes: “Ben Zoma said: Who is wise? One who learns from every person… Who is strong? One who subdues his evil inclination… Who is wealthy? One who is happy with his lot… And who is honored? One who honors his fellow human beings.” (Pirkei Avot 4:1)
The word for honor in Hebrew is Kavod. The word for heavy is Kaved. The close connection is no accident. It isn’t always easy to do what’s right, to be respectful, to genuinely care for others, and to take the high road. But how we are remembered has much less to do with how much we’ve accumulated, and much more with how we’ve acted – especially towards those in need. As my own children are suddenly now young adults, and thus feeling increased pressure to “succeed” in ways defined by others, this is the metric I want them to internalize most: Yes, life is replete with heavy & hard, kaved. But there is no asset worth more than a good name, and that comes from living according to kavod.
