A missile, healing and chutzpah
I have a confession to make, and I’m embarrassed to share it. Yet, I don’t think I can properly convey the impact of my experiences, without explaining this, first. I consider myself a strong person, or in my new Hebrew/Yiddish vocabulary, I’ve got some “chutzpah.” That’s who I am…it’s who I always was. But the last seven (plus) years have been hard. In the summer of 2012, my husband, Ken, was diagnosed with a brain tumor, just a few days after our second child was born. The next five years were up, down, better, worse…then much worse. We flitted from chaos to chaos; there was no time to process everything. I was forced to file away traumas in a folder, labeled “to deal with later.” Then, in April of 2017, he passed away, leaving me a single mother of three very young kids; and a lot more folders piling up. For nearly two years, I distracted myself with being “busy,” spending snippets of time processing my grief, but largely avoiding it. I suppose I felt if I got far enough from my loss, somehow I’d wake up “past it” someday. Early this year, though, it became apparent to me that pushing it away wasn’t a workable long-term plan, if I wanted to live again. Here’s where my confession comes in…
Emotional debt collectors came calling for me last winter, in the form of depression, anxiety, self isolation, even some really terrible nightmares (one of my husband in zombie form in my laundry room that still spooks me). There were days along the way that I wanted, desperately, to give up; just spend my days surviving. Worse, there were days I actually felt angry that I had to keep trying, that I couldn’t just give up and wallow in misery until I die. I’m deeply ashamed to admit that. I, of all people, know what a privilege it is to be alive, and how great my fortunes really are, but at the time, I was drowning in it. I had no idea what it was going to take to start healing: maybe a miracle, or maybe, a missile.
When I first planned to take a trip to Israel with my mother, I knew it was going to change things for me (Acceptance, a year of letting go). In and of itself, doing this was a divide of sorts; a choice to challenge my fear of moving forward. After a decade of being a caregiver, I was also ready for a new kind of adventure; although when I wished for adventure, I suppose I should have been more specific.
Our first morning in Israel, I groggily turned on the television and tried to figure out the coffee maker. Earlier that morning, we’d heard a siren in the distance, but we’d been forewarned, by many, that sirens in Tel Aviv are common, so we thought nothing of it. As my coffee kicked in, the newscast came into focus. The IDF had successfully carried out an assassination on a top Jihad leader overnight. I knew already this put us at greater risk; but when we arrived for our tour, our guide, Anat, assured us that these situations weren’t so rare for Israel, and we should press on as planned. I was nervous, but as the town of Old Jaffa came into view from our tour bus, my inner history lover won out. I marveled at the beauty of the ancient city; which predates any religion. We took a steep pathway to the top of a cobblestoned hill. On our left side, we could see the port of Old Jaffa, and on our right, the much younger, and modern city of Tel Aviv, all on the Mediterranean sea; it was breathtaking. Anat had just finished explaining the landscape of Israel (very comically, using someone’s body), when suddenly, the sirens blared again, much closer this time. We all looked around, concerned; as Anat explained exactly what was happening. The Iron Dome (the most sophisticated missile interceptor in existence, to date) would be releasing two missiles to intercept incoming rocket fire from the Gaza strip; a retaliation from the events the previous evening. She said, if we wanted, we could lay on the ground and put our hands over our heads. I don’t know what anyone else did, or said. I just know I looked to the sky and froze, as the white lines of missiles headed upward on the horizon. “You’ll hear the boom” she said, as the missiles flew out of view; and as if, on cue, the indescribable sound of a collision in the sky washed over us.
My heart raced, despite the fact that I was standing still. Tears brimmed my eyes under my (gratefully large) sunglasses. My knees wobbled. I thought of my children at home. I thought of their smiles, their laughter. For lack of a cooler word, I was “shook.” Then, I was angry…at myself. “I shouldn’t have come,” I thought, ”it was a mistake.” My anger only grew as my fear did; I was afraid to go to the airport, and I was scared to continue on the tour. I berated myself for taking a risk, I should know better, by now; I’m a widowed mother, I don’t get to take risks. The airlines put out a statement that they’d honor early flights out for free, if we chose. The US put out a travel advisory to exercise caution in the region. If ever I had a “free pass” to let fear win, it was then. I don’t know that anyone would have judged me if I’d chosen to go home.
As the tour wore on, and my shock wore off, my eyes, and my heart, began to open. Schools and businesses were largely closed, which was unusual for this area, and at first, it was eerily quiet. Yet as we walked past the local park; I saw parents who looked like me, playing with children that looked like mine. They swung on swings, they giggled their way down slides, they took their shoes off, and ran around. They sat at restaurants, rode their bikes, and walked their dogs. These people had me in awe; they live under routine attack, and get up every day to live their lives anyway. They were tough, full of chutzpah. I thought myself, “These are my people.” I didn’t just mean Jewish, and I didn’t mean Israeli (my family emigrated from Eastern Europe). I meant, this is my culture, we are cut from the same cloth.
It crossed my mind that what had happened reminded me of how I felt that fateful day, seven years ago, when a nervous emergency room doctor gave us news that changed our lives. That same shattered perception of life, of the world; that same sensation of having the rug pulled out from underneath me unexpectedly.
I’ve spent more than seven years mourning. Not just life as I knew it, or a relationship as it was, but an existence where I felt safe; where I was naive to the ways it can all go to dirt in a minute. I’ve lived in constant anxiety, looking for the next kick, or in this case, the next missile. I thought of Anat telling us we could lay down and place our hands on our heads, and my thinking, “What good would that do if a missile hits me?”
AHA! Lightbulb! Whatever word you want to use for that lightning strike of awareness that forces you to face yourself, and how you are living your life…or not living it. Hiding from life, hoping it doesn’t find you, or laying on the ground with my hands on my head, are not going to protect me from that next life altering event, whatever it is.
By dinner time, I knew I would be continuing on, despite my angst. It became obvious to me, so quickly, that this “trip” would be far “more” than I could have imagined. “More” what? I had no idea; but I was more determined than ever to find out. Over the course of the next eight days, feeling more in tune with myself than I have in a long time, I took it all in. I felt connected, I met incredible people, saw fascinating things, and learned so much. To say I came home feeling changed would be an understatement.
I’m still afraid. I’m still not healed. But I know, now, that this life is so much “more” than I knew…more of what? I have no idea, but I’m more determined than ever to find out.