For readers who may not be Jewish or who may be unfamiliar with traditional Jewish mourning customs, the concept of the Shiva is worth explaining. The basic assumption is that a bereaved person needs some time out of his or her regular life, a time to get over the initial shock of the loss. For seven days the mourners stay at home and other people take care of them. They are subject to restrictions that symbolize their bereavement, such as not wearing leather shoes, wearing a torn garment, not looking in the mirror. We say that a person “sits shiva,” because during that time one is not supposed to sit on a comfortable, high chair, but on a low stool or cushion or on the floor.
I have sat shiva before. When my father died in 1991, I stayed with my mother for the shiva period, but we couldn't observe it fully, because my parents didn't live in a strong Jewish community. Family friends and relatives came to visit, but there were no organized prayers, and no one knew that they were supposed to bring food for us. I didn't stay inside all the time. I had to do some shopping.
When my mother died, a year and a half later, we brought her body to Israel for burial, and I sat shiva properly in my home. Because I was the only one sitting shiva at the time, my wife and family could function normally, and we didn't need a lot of outside help. People came, we had prayers in our home, and it was a quiet time of reflection for me. In my late forties, I had become an orphan.
This time we were all sitting shiva, my wife and I and our three other children. The members of our synagogue, our religious community, mobilized to help us, and other friends brought food. People took over our house and our kitchen and would hardly let us do a thing for ourselves. That was hard to get used to.
The love and support that surrounded us during the shiva were overwhelming. Nearly two months have gone by since them, and my gratitude has only grown. From seven in the morning, when we held prayers, until ten at night, when the last visitors left, we were coddled and surprised to find people that we hardly knew took the trouble to come. Sometimes it was too much, and I couldn't respond to people, but that was exceptional.
Two visits left a deep impression on me. A man I have known pretty well for a long time told me that he and his wife lost a child at the age of six months (something I hadn't known), and they've never stopped feeling deeply sad about it. His wife told me that since she lost her daughter, she stopped fearing death. I've been trying to figure that out ever since.
A man I know only slightly, an editor for whom I've done translations, a very British, restrained person, came in, visibly shaken, and told us that he had lost a son twelve years ago in fairly similar circumstances. His son, an experienced mountaineer, was leading a group in Bolivia. It began to snow, and they put up tents. He stepped out of his tent in the middle of the night and fell to his death.
Both of these stories of bereavement taught me that I shouldn't expect to get over this loss. When something similar happens to someone else, I'll be hard hit again.
I got a very upsetting telephone call with the same deep message from a childhood friend in America, whose son died of a brain tumor about four years ago. She was griefstricken again by the news of Asher's death, and I felt that she needed consolation almost more than I did, but I was unable to offer her any, because of my own emotional exhaustion.
There are times when I say to myself: I'm tired of this. I don't want to be a bereaved parent anymore. But it's not something one can stop.
The shiva makes you turn the story of your loved one's death into something routine and rehearsed, that you can tell people over and over again, and that's useful to put things at some emotional distance.
When the shiva's over, and your house empties out, and you're on your own, there's some relief. You're ready to begin dealing with the situation on your own.
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