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Zoe Judith
Crafter. Maker. Builder. Breaker.

On Loss

I didn’t want to write an article specifically about October 7th. There are far more eloquent people than me spilling ink over so much spilled blood. The last year has been a mourning period for us all. And we have all had to take a hard look at the world around us as we have struggled to come to terms with the sheer amount and depth of hatred people have for Jews.

I know that I am just one person with just one small perspective. I know that mine is an infinitesimally small fraction of the pain being experienced by those who lost loved ones this past year. I know that I live on the other side of the world where I wake up to anti-Jew vandalism instead of rocket fire. And I know that I feel like a fraud expressing grief and pain over this when there are so many who have lost so much more.

But you never know what effects speaking up will have, whatever the context and whatever the platform. I, myself, was inspired to make a life altering choice after reading a conversation with Jennifer Aniston (long may she reign). So I’m putting this here, out in the ether, hoping that it will resonate with the person who needs to hear it, whoever that may be. Because sometimes we all need a friend.

So let’s talk about loss.

My first real experience with death came when I was six years old while we were visiting family in Israel. There was this lovely old couple who lived at the hotel we were staying at. They always had a smile for the children passing by and maybe a candy if you stopped to say hello. Until one night – the night the husband died.

You could feel the tension roll in like a fog blanket. You could feel the fear. You could feel the change in the air. And no one would tell me why. But something had happened. I knew it. I just didn’t know what it meant.

It was eerie to say the least, watching the normal procession of life come to a screeching halt. The most unsettling thing of all was watching the adults, my parents included, look adrift. At that age, parents know everything, so seeing them so uneasy certainly set off alarm bells. No one knew what to do, not that there was anything to do. What I did notice, however, was a subconscious need for the adults to drift together.

People who didn’t know each other began congregating in groups. No one walked anywhere alone. No one said much of anything, but you could feel their eyes darting all over as they scanned for a danger they were instinctively protecting each other from. They were acting like a tiger might attack from the bushes at any moment. They were acting like prey.

Israel has always been inextricably linked with loss for me. My family is Israeli, at least the only family I have ever really associated with. My mother is American, but her family never claimed us as their own. My father spoke Hebrew with his father. My father’s mother was buried in Israel long before I was born. I have cousins and more cousins and even more cousins spread all over the country. And it is the only place I have family buried, thanks to the Holocaust. So as much joy as our trips afforded us, there was always a black hole that awaited us when we arrived.

We never knew when it would happen, but at some point my father would load us in the car and we would take a trip to the cemetery, where he would leave us behind and disappear until he had done what he needed to do. He never talked about it before he went. He never talked about it once he got back to the car. He would simply get back in, wipe away the tears we would never see him cry in any other situation, and drive off.

And life would go on.

Death was not something we talked about. Loss was not something you brought up. It was almost like discussing it would invoke it. And then my grandfather died and my world was shattered. And it turns out I needed to talk about it.

Two things happened when my world broke apart. I began to really see other people in a way I wasn’t capable of before, and I realized I couldn’t count on them to see me, really see me, unless I took deliberate steps to paint them a picture.

I was in pain. I wasn’t whole anymore. And even though I knew intellectually that the world would go on with or without me, it was still jarring. The sun still came up and went down. Groceries still needed to be bought. Laundry needed to get done. Emails needed to be answered. But the person they were trying to reach wasn’t the same anymore.

Why couldn’t anyone see that? Why wasn’t there a button I could push to simultaneously let everyone know that I was broken and that I wasn’t going to get better any time soon? But there is no button. There is no neon sign. And people aren’t psychic.

I can remember the first time the dam burst, the first time I experienced just how far the ripples of loss travel. I went to a neighborhood pizza place in one of my first forays back into civilization. I thought it would be an easy way to test the waters. It was familiar, friendly, and above all, not somewhere I associated with my grandfather. I am also a strong believer in the healing power of melty cheese, so it felt like a two birds one stone situation.

The manager came over, in that wonderfully boisterous Italian American way, and chastised me for not coming more often. The friendly patter was soothing and I was even able to laugh a little. He asked about my parents. I asked about his siblings. And then he said it. He looked me in the eyes, hesitated, and then asked why he didn’t see my grandfather walk past the window every Friday and Saturday anymore.

And I couldn’t breathe. How could I have been so stupid? The pizza place was directly on his walking route to synagogue. He had made the same trek every shabbat and every holiday for all the years he lived by us. My grandfather may not have been a customer, but he had played a large enough role in this man’s routine for him to notice his absence. And I had been too consumed with myself not to take that into consideration.

I heard myself tell him that he died as I tried to concentrate on not dissolving into a tear puddle in the middle of the crowded restaurant. I remember being surprised by how calm I sounded while I cursed the fact that I would never be able to go there again without dying of shame. I had done it. I had done the thing I was never supposed to do. I had involved someone else in my loss, like I was infecting them with it. And I was a blink away from ugly crying in public.

And then something unexpected happened. He sat down. And he told me about his loss. And I found myself consoling him. It was a small place, so everyone could hear everything. Soon the other workers were sharing their own stories, their own pain. And then a customer. And then another.

Each and every one of them was hurting, just like I was. Each and every one of them had a story to share, just like I was. And each and every one of them was gripped by the need to unburden themselves, just like I was. And little by little I started to breathe again.

I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t alone in my pain. That visceral realization, that so many others were just as broken as I was and were able to go about their days without any fanfare, was both horrifying and comforting. It was like life and finally taken the blinders off and I could see a more complete picture of the people around me. They were just as broken as I was, but they could still function. And if they could go about their lives so could I.

You are not alone. You are not alone in your pain or your grief. You are not alone in your loss. All of our worlds were shattered a year ago, and our hearts continue to break with every new news cycle.

The lives we thought we were living are over. But we are all experiencing this new world together. And together we will succeed.

About the Author
Zoe is an educator with over two decades of experience crafting memorable learning experiences for all ages that inspire wonder, ignite curiosity, and encourage agency. You can usually find her under the nearest pile of books.
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