Saying Goodbye to Laura Ben-David

To many, she was LAURA BEN-DAVID, the photographer, the social media personality, the nurse, the makeup artist, the activist, the Mom, the Mimi… I could go on – there’s a long list of what Laura did and who she was. But to me, she was *just* my Laura. That’s what I always called her. My Laura. While it was social media that connected us initially (15ish years ago, social media was a completely different animal — we met, I think, through the Jewish blogosphere), when we met for the first time in real life, our connection was instant. She became the sister of my heart.

As anyone who has been around social media since Thursday, July 17, 2025, can tell you, when Laura died, the tributes immediately began to pour in. So many people with so many different stories and emotions. But there was one central, recurring theme — Laura’s zest and love for life, even as she was dying.

I want to talk about Laura, my friend. The person with whom I shared secrets and traumas, joyous and sad events, and everything in between. I want to talk about our last meeting.

June 4, 2025. I was visiting Israel from New York. The reason for my trip was the birth of our first grandchild, in Israel — a beautiful baby girl whose mere existence makes my heart burst with love. I, the first-time Savta, came out to help my son and daughter-in-law get a little more sleep, and to grab as much cuddling time as I could. I told Laura all about the baby as soon as I was allowed to announce the pregnancy, and texted Laura when she was born. Laura was so happy for us! She wanted all the photos. We’re not sharing photos of the baby on social media or with people who are not family. Laura was family. Maybe not by blood, but she was the sister I never had. The sister of my heart.  

I had, however, told EVERYONE in Israel who wanted to see me that I was doing no side-quests. I was there for the kids and they were my main focus. Everyone understood.

But before I left the States (last minute, because babies are unpredictable and pay no attention to schedules), I contacted Laura, and asked if I could come over to see her while I was in the midst of being a (temporarily onsite) full-time Savta. The unspoken words I could not bring myself to say — can I come over and say goodbye? Totally not a side-quest. I was leaving Israel the next week and knew I wouldn’t be back again in time to see her again.

Personally, like many people, I am not good with illness, death, funerals, shiva etc. Losing my father at an early age after a long sickness apparently affected me that way. But this was Laura. My Laura. And we all knew she was dying. She had texted our small WhatsApp group a month or two before (I can’t look up when, for I’m not yet ready to reread our text exchanges) to tell us that the maintenance chemotherapy she was having to prolong her life just that little bit more was making her sicker, that she had decided to stop the chemo, and that she was completely at peace with her decision. She said something about each day being precious and making memories, but I can’t remember the rest — I couldn’t read it because I knew soon the world would be Laura-less and I was crying too hard.

So, we set a time that worked for both of us. One of my other sons said he would pick me up and go with me. I have never been nervous about seeing Laura before. There was always excitement and joy, and the last time I had seen her — last autumn — was after her first chemo this go-around, when she visited the States with her husband Ray and said she thought she was starting to feel better. She was very skinny (not that she was ever not slim) but totally Laura, looked completely herself albeit with shorter hair, big huge smile and all. As always, she was totally factual about her disease and the current plan, and she encouraged me to go on and on about the current drama in my life. She did tell me to distract her, but that drama pales in comparison. She’d hate that I still feel guilty about that.

But this time, this visit in Israel, she was actively dying. Day by excruciating day. The photos of her that were being shown on social media attested to her decline, as we watched her get progressively thinner and weaker. I desperately wanted to hold her and make it better.

I was nervous. How would it be? Would things be the same between us or would CANCER be the main topic? Would it be the elephant in the room? I wanted to say the right things, and I was afraid I’d mess up. Suddenly, I didn’t know “how to be” with My Laura.

My son and I showed up at their door and Ray let us in. Laura carefully got out of bed, leaning on her walker, obviously weak, and they decided we should go out back.

Laura and I sat together on the porch swing, while my son and Ray sat away from us, talking about war and war experiences (mainly my son, an IDF Veteran), life in Israel, and lots of other things I missed. As a mom, I was attuned to certain phrases my son had used and I stopped my conversation with Laura to ask if she heard this or that. She had. She empathized, having soldiers among her own kids.

Laura and I…  We didn’t talk about the cancer. The first thing we did was to WhatsApp videocall my daughter-in-law because Laura wanted so much to meet my new granddaughter. The joy on her face, the little squeal she let out upon seeing the baby is something that I will never forget. Of course, at that point, Laura was Mimi to 8.9 grandchildren, but to see her take joy in my one…priceless.

Laura was obviously in pain, but said not a word. Ray, her absolute soulmate, could see it in her eyes and asked her if she was in pain. She tried so hard not to say yes. He brought her some medication and we carried on with our visit. Complaining was always hard for Laura — I never heard her whine or kvetch.

We chitchatted about everything and nothing. We laughed about the orange scarf I brought with me to return to her, which I had borrowed on a cool Jerusalem evening about three years prior when she was in the process of planning her wedding to Ray.  She was shocked that I remembered it was at the First Station and we ate risotto. We talked about all the kids and the family. Laura nodded off here and there but always caught herself and carried on the conversation without missing a beat. We knew cancer was there, but it was as if it was simply brushed aside for our visit.

I wanted to stay forever. Maybe if I never left, she wouldn’t die. I knew we were tiring her out, but this was going to be it. The last time I would ever get to see her. How could I actually leave? What words could I say that would sum up the love we had, the friendship we shared, without reducing both of us to blubbering messes? And as I write this, I’ll share that I don’t think I ever saw Laura cry except from laughter.

After a while, I reluctantly told my son we should go. Ray reminded me and Laura that we needed to take a selfie (every time we met we selfied. Even the times that were secret because I didn’t need the whole world knowing that outside of family, I only met up with Laura on my trip and not them) – and I was fully expecting her to say no but she was all for it. It was the only time EVER that I was the one to hold the phone/camera or set it up for the selfie. Laura was too weak to hold it up at the right angle. But don’t worry — she still insisted on editing it before she let me post it on Facebook. 

We went through the kitchen on the way to the front door. Laura was standing, leaning on her walker, and I gently put my arms around her (dry-eyed. I was NOT going to let myself cry) and said “I love you”. She put her arms around me and said it back. Ray walked us to the door and we left. As the front door closed behind us and we climbed up one small flight of stairs, I finally broke. My son held me, stopping me from slipping to the floor until I could breathe again. And he helped me slowly to the car. And thanked me for allowing him to be a part of this journey.

That was six weeks before Laura left us. While she was obviously sick, she was still so full of joy and love and laughter and there was absolutely no self-pity. NONE.

In the weeks since I left Israel I carried on texting with Laura and sharing photos of our grandchild and she shared photos of her grandson that was born a couple of weeks before she left us. I am so happy that Laura got to attend his brit, and got to hold him. She texted, asking me, “how am I going to visit him? They live a few floors up without an elevator and I can’t even do one floor.” I don’t think either of us realized how little time My Laura had left. Our last text communication was actually my two-2 month-old granddaughter’s photo and Laura sent back a heart emoji.

When Ray called me on the afternoon (in NY) of July 17th to tell me the awful news, I was shocked. We expected it, sure, but not yet. We weren’t ready. And I kept thinking back to that last hug, the last words we said to each other. “I love you” carries tremendous power and knowing that we both said it comforts me a little.

Every time we were in the same country we met up – for a quick hug, or if we were lucky, for a weekend. Clandestinely sometimes. Because other people wanted to see her or me and there was never enough time. But her hugs, they held you like you mattered, every time.

Laura’s brother sat shiva here in NY, and we went to visit. The purpose of shiva is to comfort the bereaved family. Being there and hearing stories made the loss more real and I felt comforted, yet I was the one who was supposed to do the comforting. I was asked for some Laura stories and I could hardly remember any. My mind went almost completely blank. The stories are still trying to get out but it’s too soon.

I just keep going back to that day and our last hug and our last I love you. I look at the picture we took – she still smiled so big – and I remember how she didn’t let her illness define her. How we just hung out in her backyard that day like it was any other Wednesday.

Goodbye my friend, My Laura. I miss you so very much already.