Five Years Without You

This evening marks five years since my father’s passing. The past three years Eitan and I hosted a kiddush in our home the shabbat before his yahrzeit. We brought friends together and shared food and drinks to honor his memory. Each year I would share a story or a memory of my father or reflect on what it has been like to not have him physically here anymore and talk about how we try to bring him into our lives in large and small ways. 

Last year I took on a large and emotionally draining project. I created a memory book of pictures and stories gathered from family and friends. I feel so blessed and grateful for those stories and so honored that a memory book sits in the homes of my siblings, my father’s siblings, my cousins, and my father’s friends. It means that on a shabbat morning one of these individuals may take out their book and say “want to see pictures of your grandpa, my best friend, a man I admired?” It keeps his memory in our hearts and his stories alive in the homes and hearts of many now and in the future.

This year feels particularly emotional when I think of my father not being here. He has two grandchildren arriving this year, both Michelle and I are expecting. Michelle is due on Dad’s Yahrzeit, something both so special and so hard.

It was hard for both of us to imagine starting a family and knowing our kiddos would not get to meet their grandpa in person. However, creating that book last year showed me there are hundreds of people ready and willing to share their memories of our father. Hundreds of people who by loving and being loved by our father will also show that love to our children and try to be some form of grandfather for them -- to honor our Dad. 

Samuel Rosenberg, Z’’L touched so many people’s lives in his short 59 years on Earth and his memory and his goodness is ever present in all our lives. 

Since his passing, three children have been named for him. Three beautiful little people will ask their parents about their namesake and be told about the great man’s legacy they carry. I love seeing my niece Samantha (for a million reasons obviously) but particularly when I say  “Sammy” I picture the warm way my father’s older siblings would say his name. I always loved that his older siblings called him Sammy but that Uncle Michael said “Sam,” with some sweet deference and admiration there for his older brother. Admiration for my father was not felt by his younger brother alone. Everyone who knew my father knew he was a great man. 

When I look over the stories or think about his legacy he was so much. He was a beautiful and kind husband, a fun and forgiving parent, the most loving and creative grandpa, an honest and giving attorney, a loyal and loving brother,  a unique and special friend, and much more. My father loved to repeat something his older brother would say “the best thing you can do for your children is to love their mother”. And boy did he love my mom. He thought she was the cutest person. He loved every little quirk and patiently (for a not very patient man) would walk anywhere with her, at a pace that defied human momentum; seriously, how do you get anywhere walking that slow? My parents really set a high bar when it came to love. They had their things they disagreed about but their love was storybook. My Aunt Lee said to my mom in the hospital (I paraphrase) “you two were the model of what love should be.” That love really guided my choice when I met Eitan and every day I remember to appreciate and honor my marriage. Eitan is different from my father, but in a lot of important ways they are alike, and our love and marriage is modeled after the honest and deep love and commitment I saw between my parents (and continue to see modeled by his parents as well). 

This year as I reflect on the relationships my father had, I think about my own as well. It's a hard and scary time in our world and I think about what it would be like if he was here. Thank God Eitan and I have decided we are going to drive to the East Coast and see family. Like my father, we hold no value higher than the value of family. 

Michelle and I are the first of my siblings to conceive a child after my father passed. My father knew sweet Meg was pregnant before he died and the joy of that baby to come and baby Yoav helped him throughout his treatment, giving solace and comfort in his pain. I can’t imagine not being there after Michelle gives birth. We have really been on this journey together and this beautiful baby is another sweet reminder of our father’s legacy.  

The pain of not being with family these past five months has been really overwhelming. I know my father would be proud of our commitment to make it work. I also know he would be proud of the thoughtfulness in how we are going. He would be pleased we are both thinking of our own safety, how to protect ourselves and our precious little one, but also proud of the steps we are taking to not potentially, unknowingly spread Covid or infect others. It will be so hard to social distance from some of the people we will be seeing but it will be worth it to drive 12 hours to even see family and stand 6 feet apart. My father (and my mother) would be happy just to look at us, or just watch their grandchildren play, and I now really understand that sentiment. I am excited to just see my Sammy (and all my niblings) and say her name and think of my Dad. I am also so excited to hold Michelle’s child and eventually my own, and remember that even after my father’s passing his legacy and his name will live on through these precious little people. 

To honor the day, this year Eitan and I will attend an outdoor service - social distancing and wearing masks. I will get to say Kaddish with a Minyan and then we will go to the Kosher BBQ place, get takeout, and eat some delicious meat that my father would have loved. We will continue to be in our bubble of two (or 2 ½) missing our community, but knowing my father would be proud of our commitment to helping end this pandemic and playing our part in keeping others safe. 

Five years is a long time. A lot of life has and will happen since my father’s passing, but Thank God we can hold his memory and take him with us into each special moment in our lives. 

A Reflection on Privilege and a Personal Joyful Announcement amidst Collective Grief

An important reminder came this week when I read my friend Athina’s reflection in her recent Instagram post.  During graduate school, my cohort engaged in a challenging and tear-filled conversation. It was painful and it was important. My fellow classmates—primarily BIPOC (black, indigenous, people of color)—took the time to call us (white people) out and challenge us to do the work to reflect on our inherent privilege, to learn the history of our country, and to question our biases. A moment Athina remembered and reflected, that I had forgotten, was when one of our classmates, Heather told us, (and I paraphrase): “White people- speak up.  Share your opinion. Don’t be silent because you are afraid of saying the wrong thing. And know you’ll probably get checked.”

The checking each other is the space of learning, it is the place where we as people get the opportunity to understand ourselves and others better and engage with the world with more kindness and grace. What a gift it is when someone takes the time to call out our behaviors, especially when our actions may feel to us innocuous– there are often subtle undertones of racism and privilege that we are unaware of.

The last four months have been a trying period in our country and in our world. It is rare that an issue hits and impacts an entire nation. We were instructed to stay indoors, shelter in place, and avoid gatherings. We were all touched by worry and concern for our bodies and the bodies of our family. One of my closest friends had Covid 19, thank God she had a full recovery and was able to heal at home. Many of my friends lost their jobs, or saw their salaries cut, and I have been worried constantly for the health of my mother and in-laws, as they are in the high risk category. I have worried for my friends and family who live alone, who have not touched and felt the warm embrace of another person for months, while I sleep each night cuddled against my favorite person. Yet all of my worries are still the worry of a privileged person. While impacting everyone in some way, the pandemic has not impacted evenly or fairly. On a personal level, I have sheltered in place in my comfortable home, with my favorite person, both of us still employed and able to do our work with only minor modifications. I have access to high speed internet, a smart phone that allows me to FaceTime and see my loved ones every day, and a car to conveniently take us to the grocery store—with the flexibility to go at off peak times to minimize risk and exposure.

The communities and people most impacted have experienced institutional, systemic disinvestment and inequitable treatment for generations, fighting for their lives each and every day. The coronavirus has disproportionately taken the lives of more black and brown people. We know the advice disseminated by the CDC is through a white lens, as research so often is, and does not take into account the inhumane conditions and underlying fears of the Western medical system. https://features.propublica.org/chicago-first-deaths/covid-coronavirus-took-black-lives-first/.

People are dying. People are getting sick. People are experiencing anxiety, depression, and grief at enormous rates during the pandemic and recent demonstrations to call out anti-Blackness.

George Floyd was another victim of police brutality. He was murdered in front of witnesses who heard him cry out for help and those witnesses asked for the officer to stop. Another black man was murdered.

Our nation gave a collective outcry and many of the bravest organized and took to the streets to protest. Brave folks, despite the grave risk to their bodies, both from exposure to Covid 19 and the violent aggression of armed, militarized, “peace” officers.  Protesting not just the death George Floyd, but of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Atania Jefferson, Jonathan Ferrel, Raisha McBride, Stephon Clark, Jordan Edwards, Jordan Davis, Alton Sterling, Aiyana Jones, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Philander Castile, Eric Garner, and so many more. People flooded the streets to protest generations of police brutality, to call out the systemic racism that lays at the very foundations of our country (and our police force), to challenge how capitalism was built on the backs and labor of black folks and created to horde power and maintain the status quo.

I am aware I am a beneficiary and a contributor to the systems that exists. I, as a white woman, benefit from these systems and often play a part in keeping them alive.

Right now, during this season of increased awareness and public focused unrest, I am trying to figure out the part I can play to combat anti-blackness. Over the past five years I have been working hard to grow and change. To acknowledge my privilege and to grow as an ally. I make mistakes—and desperately ask to be called out and supported in my learning. I also acknowledge how unfair that is—and know that it puts more work on the communities already struggling and fighting. Therefore, I commit to doing independent work first:

Reading. Listening. Questioning.

I am afraid of the protest. I am scared to expose myself to Covid 19 and afraid of rubber bullets and tear gas. I assuage my fear by saying I am not going because I am pregnant, my happy announcement I have included in my title. It is a happy announcement. What a little piece of joy Eitan and I have been able to carry throughout our social distancing and now during this painful time. It is a happy secret, and now announcement, shared amidst pain.

However, my calculus to stay inside to stay protected is a privilege too. I have a job I can do from home, so I don't have to decide between employment, paying my bills, and protecting my little pomegranate from illness.

My calculus to stay away from the protest is also a privilege. I said to Eitan “I am sure a black pregnant woman would stay indoors too.” This is when he called me out. The black mother-to-be has to weigh the risks of their fetus being harmed by exposure to a virus or being hit by a rubber-bullet, or in the case of  Saraneka “Nemo” Martin, an actual bullet shot into a peaceful protest in Austin Texas, (link for her GoFUNDme at end of post), against what happens to their child if the world doesn't change, if systemic oppression continues and their child is arrested and then murdered for being accused of using counterfeit money, or looking strangely at a white woman, or reaching for their wallet, or going for a run.  For being. 

My privilege allows me to stay indoors and watch from my window rather than participate on the ground. I will stand by my decision because I want to protect our precious baby, this little person growing who I have waited 10 months to conceive, and that is okay. It is okay for me to stay protected. But I have to own that it is a privilege, that I am more afraid for my child now than I will be after they are born because they will be white—and therefore protected.

And I still want to do something.

Thank God, my job grants me the privilege to provide therapy and support. In my role as a therapist I have been given the gift to speak with and provide support and healing to some of the brave souls on the front lines. I am grateful for this privilege but also so tired, so sad, so drained. I also know that to do my job, I have to take care of myself. I have to watch stupid TV, or take a walk, or do yoga, so that I can go into session able to be present with my clients, able to make them the center, and acknowledge their experience and pain, not my own. I know that I can feel both of these feelings in parallel-- that my work is important, than I can be a support to my clients, and that I need to prioritize self-care during my downtime. And it feels selfish. 

Right now, my role as therapist is sometimes to remind clients to stay hydrated, to not forget to eat. Many of my clients are experiencing grief and when we are grieving we often forget to take care of our basic needs. It has been extremely hard, as a social worker, knowing that trauma processing and personal reflection – often the work of therapy, cannot happen if basic needs are not met. And yet, for my Black clients, bodily safety is never guaranteed and particularly threatened right now.

The job of a therapist is sometimes to simply bear witness. Much of my time, both as a result of Covid 19 and during our collective grief about recent murders, has been to bear witness. Sometimes I speak, but often I just listen and sit with clients in their pain and hold their feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and rage. Sometimes all we can give to people we love, and yes I truly love my clients, is our open hearts and a holding space for pain.

In addition to my job:

I am donating to causes that support black-owned business and help relieve bail fees for protesters. I am sharing articles and causes that have challenged me to use a critical lens. I am taking time to learn which will be a lifelong process.

And I know I am not done learning. I may have said ignorant things in this post so call me out. By calling me out, I believe it will help me to grow and more broadly help us to change. That is how we change. I write this post as much for myself as I do for others who may need to read it, and I acknowledge that. I thank you for reading. I hope by reading this post it can change your perspective in some way or inspire you to look inward and learn about yourself. Join me in this journey of learning!

Thank you to Athina, Heather and my entire cohort at SSA for reminding me that I cannot stay silent and by not doing so, I may fumble and may say the wrong thing throughout the learning process. I will try to do better next time.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/20ty421zyo?sharetype=teams&member=4526616&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter&utm_campaign=p_na+share-sheet&pc_code=tw_co_dashboard_a&rcid=5d2c5afbbeaa44cc83d8b642988f3760

Vulnerability and its surprising consequences

The last 9 months have been painful and long.

I have felt sadness that is completely new and different to me. 

I have had a lot of intense and painful experiences in my life, but the fear and anxiety that comes with trying to conceive is brand-new. Feeling out of control and unsure of whether I will one day be a mom hurts in a way that is deep, that holds my heart in this state of heaviness, that slows my breathing and leaves me unsure of whats next. 

I want to share some of the experience - for my own wellness - because I process through writing and also because  if I can offer a modicum of support and a moment of healing for someone else going through it, or how I think it is better described, who is in it, my writing is worth it. 

I have learned a lot about myself, my relationship with my partner, and a lot about different people in my life who I am close with. 

I chose to be open about "trying". One, because I just don't think wanting to start a family and having a hard time conceiving should be a secret, but two, because most of the people I shared with kind of knew anyway. I've been married for 3.5 years, I am 29, my husband and I both have good jobs and we are both obsessed with kids and have always wanted to be parents. 

What I have learned from my openness and vulnerability is that I have some amazing and compassionate and thoughtful people in my life. I have people who have been there for me in various quiet and not so quiet ways. I have friends who notice my sadness when I reach for a glass of wine, disappointed that while I love a rose with dinner, I would rather be abstaining. I have had friends notice and compliment my strength, friends hug me when I cry, or hear me out when I am disappointed and sad. Friends who kindly ask, "how can I help?"

These same friends recognize that my emotions are complicated - that I am completely happy for the life they have and absolutely in love with their babies, but that some days I want to hold and snuggle their children, and other days I want to chat about politics or work and focus on being adults or engaging civically and do anything but hold their adorable, snuggly kid, because I am just not up for it. 

They don't make me feel judged or wrong for my emotions, but embrace me and embrace the feelings and sit in discomfort.

But I have also had people in my life who have seen my vulnerability and rejected it, or judged it. 

I have been surprised by the people in my life who have made me feel that being open about my experiences, my wants, my vulnerability is some how bad. People who have made me feel broken because I am sad. Who have made the choice to cut me out rather than bring me in when I am sad, who have ran from my hard feelings, rather than acknowledge or hold them. Or simply assume that I am one way rather than multifaceted. People who make me feel that by sharing I am sad I am also begrudging or denying their right to be lucky and to feel complete. People who are not patient enough with complicated feelings and so chose to isolate me because they don’t trust me to joyful about their lives while also struggling with the place I am in mine. Perhaps the assumption and isolation is the cruelest and most painful response of all. Yes, I still want to hear about your pregnancy, or your kids, or your anxiety - just be sensitive about when and how. 

And I have also had people just say the wrong fucking thing: 

Sometimes the wrong thing is not their fault and just based on my values or beliefs or simply something I couldn't hear at the time. However, sometimes people say things that are so tone deaf and insensitive I hope and pray that I can let go and forgive because I do not want to be angry.

Below are some examples - read this list to find a way to support other people, not to look for yourself or to confirm you did not say something on the list. Its okay if you have said the wrong thing, try not to next time, or to the next person. Its okay that I was vulnerable and it was hard for you to hold, but take this moment to learn. Read this list to grow and maybe find a way to let me, or your friend, or you sister, or brother know that you are sorry. 

B'sha Tovar (at the right time) a very common Jewish statement and something that brings comfort to my spouse, so I don't reject it as wrong but I reject it as wrong for me. 

Because the right time was when we began trying - 9 months ago (or maybe sooner). We waited until our marriage was strong and stable, our finances settled and we had money in the bank. We are both emotionally mature and kind. My partner is amazing with babies and I am ready, absolutely ready to be a mom. So in the right time, it passed, so "Bsha Tovah" just cannot bring me comfort. 

It will be your turn soon - nice try - but tell me when... 

It hasn’t been that long. 

Its true - 9 months is not considered abnormal, but its still a painfully long time, especially when you don’t know how much longer it will be. 

I know I am privileged that 9 months is a long time to wait for something I want. But it hurts. 

Or the stories about people who stopped trying and then it happened… They didn’t stop trying - they were having sex still and probably hoping each time that they would get pregnant.. they just didn’t expect it anymore. 

But the worse has been the (benefit of the doubt: unintentional) judgement: 

Do you think there is an issue with your cycle?

Or if not that, can it be your partners fault? 

- there is no fault...

Are you eating the right food? Are you eating enough? 

Are you exercising enough? Are you exercising too much? 

Try not to be stressed out, its not helping. 

- of course I go there - with the self-loathing and judgement - but really? No one, unless you are my doctor or I asked, should try to come up with a reason someone else isn't conceiving... EVER! 

Are you having enough sex? Thanks Mom - that one actually made me laugh... Yes Mom, we know how babies are made. 

This process sucks, if you are in it be kind to yourself. Its okay that you are sad and angry and confused. You are not alone.

If someone tells you they are having a hard time: be thoughtful, considerate and kind to other people. THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK!! but most importantly, if someone shares with you they are struggling, they are wanting something that they cannot control, be kind, be appreciative of their strength in being vulnerable, and check in with them every once in awhile, let them know they didn't make a mistake when they shared with you, be worthy of their vulnerability. I regret some people I told and if I could do it again, there are people I wouldn’t tell again. But I am also proud I was strong enough to say I AM HAVING A HARD TIME and so grateful for the people who have been there, and so touched by the different ways people made me feel seen.

I know people will read this and see their words in some way. That is okay. I forgive you and I love you, thats why I asked you to be there for me. Please try again.