A Friend's Child's Death

I had made tentative plans to go to Sinai in May with a girlfriend. Sinai is affordable, far from the maddening crowds and a place where you can clear your head for a few days just sitting on the beach and watching dolphins play all day. If I felt brave, I'd snorkle and see the beautiful coral reefs, which are more plentiful there than they are in Eilat. My friend could only make this trip on certain weekends when her ex-husband could take care of their severely handicapped son, who wasn't able to walk or talk or feed himself.

Yesterday a mutual friend tried frantically to call me, while I was in a 4 hour meeting at work, that the son - her only child who was not yet 14, had just passed away. Within a matter of hours after his death he was buried so I missed his funeral.

But I did manage to make it over to the house where the family is "sitting shiva" (the period of mourning for 7 days) waiting for her to return from the funeral.

The minute she walked in we cried on each other's shoulders, and settled her onto a low couch mattress on the floor, propping her back with pillows. Food miraculously appeared out of nowhere with people working in the kitchen, chopping up all sorts of things. Every time I turned my head, something else was put on the table. I looked at her and said "Looks like you'll have to do without your diet this week" and grabbed for her some bagels, guacomole and lox. Needless to say, I stuffed my face as well.


She told me - "They didn't even let me see him after he died. They wrapped him up in sheets and carted him off to the funeral home. There I went over to kiss him and they (the Rabbis) yelled at me not to touch him.

But she kissed him anyways.

I was like - the pope died ages ago and he's still hanging around.

Jews bury their dead quickly, but Jerusalem's custom is to not wait at all for burial, which can be quite traumatic, but perhaps the best thing. Who knows really what is the best thing for a mourning mother.

He had the privilege of being buried at Jerusalem's holiest and ancient cemetery – the Mt. of Olives – where many important and righteous people were laid to rest. There are many stories about the Mt. of Olives, one of which is that the Resurrection of the Dead will begin there. There are no longer any on the Mt. of Olives, but there are several plots reserved for "special" children so it was of some consolation that he was buried there.

I listened to her tell me she didn't think he was dead when the ambulance came, and pleaded with the medics to hook him up to some kind of machine – any machine – that would get his heart going again. But the medics worked on him for an hour right on the sidewalk and they could not revive him. He was still warm, she told me, as she held one his shirts to her face and I cried sporadically with her.

And then we reminisced.

"Remember when we had dinner in your garden 2 summers ago and Hubby started to talk about sex. All of a sudden, your son lifted up his head and looked very alert. At that point, I realized he understood everything that was being said. And we laughed so hard about it. That's when I fell in love with him."

I had the privilege of taking him to his first movie to see Farenheit 911 last summer. We were nervous he'd start making noise and be disruptive and we cautiously took him into the movie theatre with our popcorn and coffee and his wheelchair. He sat up in his chair, which he didn't do often, really seeming to enjoy the movie. We did it again a few weeks later taking him, together with my son, to an outdoor screening of the 1968 Beatles film Yellow Submarine and we sang to him throughout the film. People looked back at us, smiled and felt his enjoyment.

She took him everywhere she could, in fact, not caring that people stared at him, or shook their heads, or didn't know how to act around such a child. But he was indeed special – so special that several relatives who were close to him chose to enter the field of special ed to help others like him.

Rest in peace, pure soul.