Chapter 18. Two-Three Years…
That was what the tabib promised me. And he did all he could, more than he could.
Mama was feeling better and better every passing month. Her face became rosy and as fresh as that of a young woman. She became merrier and more attractive. She was truly happy at last, after so many trials and tribulations. The grandchildren – they were the ones who became her joy and concern. It seemed that the little pranksters, already four of them, were busy with one thing – organizing “pogroms,” and they did it quite successfully. Toys were scattered all over the place. Newspaper and magazines were “read” so many times that they turned into shreds that covered the floor. The walls of the rooms looked like an art gallery where works of the craziest incomprehensible artists were displayed… In a word, our house, like the home of any family with many children, didn’t excel in proper order. Did it upset anyone? Mama laughed happily, enjoying the kids’ games and pranks.
There is an old custom in Central Asia… When a sheep falls ill, gravely ill, they put a newborn lamb next to it. The sheep often gets better as it takes care of the lamb. But if this kind of shifting of attention to something positive, if such loving care of a weak creature helps a sheep, then it must be a hundredfold more useful for a mother with a loving heart. When my wife Svetlana and I had discussed whether it was the right time to have a third child, we had decided that the arrival of the baby might be a good stimulus for Mama and give her more energy.
That was what had happened. When baby Esther came into the world, Mama was transformed. Now the most important thing in the morning was not her herbs anymore, it was little Esther in Grandma’s bed. When the little one was brought to her bedroom in the morning, Mama, to save face, scolded us first of all (“The baby is cold again… Her little nose is cold…”). Then she would hug the little warm bundle and begin to mumble and blissfully whisper something. Morning started with joy, and so it was the whole day.
Our friendship with the tabib had continued and grown stronger. Now he visited us more often than we did him in Namangan. After awhile, Mama had tired of all those long trips over so many years. Besides, she didn’t understand why they were necessary. And it wasn’t bad for the tabib to get some fresh air near the ocean and to take a break from his numerous patients twice a year. It was true that hundreds of eager new patients were seeking to consult with him.
"Mukhitdin-aka," Mama complained to the tabib during one of his visits, "I am gaining weight all the time… Look how fat I’ve become."
"You don’t say, Esya-apa!" the doctor answered raising his eyebrows. "But that’s good. The weight is a wonderful index. It gives you more energy. Show me one woman," and here he stumbled, "…who has suffered your illness and looks so well… ptui- ptui – ptui!"
It was nice to hear it, and it was really great to watch Mama, but the tabib and I knew the truth. He had managed to slow down the process, to slow it down considerably. He had managed to give Mama energy to keep on living, to improve her general physical and mental state, but the metastasis continued and was performing its terrible destructive work.
I would take Mama to the hospital for regularly scheduled tests. The doctors only shrugged their shoulders. They could see the healthy-looking woman, but meanwhile, her lungs, ribs, and joints had nodes of metastasis.
Five years had passed since the time we had taken our first trip to Namangan and begun the treatment with the tabib. It was a very long time for an oncology patient who by then had been in “the fourth, or final” stage of the disease. Both those years and Mama’s general health had been won in the battle with the terrible enemy.
Changes began inconspicuously. Sometimes, after Mama got up in the morning, she was pale, and it was clear that she was out of sorts. Other times, she felt sick and would go upstairs to lie down during the day. Sometimes, pain in the back kept her from sleeping. Sometimes, she would be sitting on the couch enjoying the company of little Esya, who was babbling something sitting in her baby carriage, when suddenly she would close her eyes, listening to something inside herself, fighting something off.
The enemy began to attack again, first cautiously, then boldly. It became particularly bold in the fall of 1998. Her pain and weakness increased every passing day. It was more and more difficult for her to move. She had almost lost her appetite. Mama was changing before our very eyes… her rosy complexion was more often grayish… deep wrinkles crossed her face.
She couldn’t sleep or live without painkillers anymore. Doctor Maria Yakobova, a pleasant, knowledgeable person from the old country, visited Mama to give her injections every other day. Maria Borisovna made a correct decision – she eased the pain with injections in the vertebrae affected by that metastasis that pressed on the nerve endings.
They continued telling me over and over at the hospital that x-rays, and tests showed serious deterioration. The doctors worried; they pushed me hard.
"Something should be done, radiation, at least," the oncologist insisted. “Just on this node," he showed me the node on the x-ray. “If we don’t shrink it, she’ll be paralyzed. As to your herbs, they are good for hens.”
I was at a loss. The tabib was doing everything he could. His herbs were powerful, but Mama’s immune system was so weakened and compromised that his herbs couldn’t stimulate it sufficiently. And here they were offering me something that would prevent paralysis. Here we could hope to get actual help. Did I have a right to turn it down? Mama was suffering so much.
But before taking Mama for radiation I had to tell her the truth.
It had been five years since the swirling whirlpool of the unpredictable had begun swallowing me up. I thrashed around, tried to swim out of it but only rarely managed to climb onto a shifting little island for a short respite. I even became accustomed to the situation. One day I would be in New York, the next I flew with Mama to Namangan. One day I would have a chance to inhale the sweet air of hope, but another day a new ordeal would begin, leaving me breathless – a new dim spot on an x-ray… I never knew what the next day would bring. But I knew one thing for sure: I had to conceal, as long as possible, Mama’s diagnosis, the numerous problems, the hopelessness of the situation, to conceal it from my family, from Emma, and most of all from Mama.
I broke my silence when I told Emma everything. I had to do it. It was impossible to conceal the real state of things from her any longer. She would not forgive me. Now I had to talk to Mama, but she did it before I had been able to…
That evening, I came home late, but the light was still on in Mama’s bedroom. I looked in on her. Mama was sitting on her bed. Emma, upset and tense, was across from her.
"Come in and close the door," Mama said. "Now sit down. Tell me, please, how much longer are you going to conceal from me… What is it you're concealing?"
Emma and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. What was she talking about? I wasn’t going to argue with her. I just wanted to understand what Mama actually knew.
"Enough taking me for a little fool. I can see that you are both out of sorts. You, Valera, cannot sit still, and you hide your eyes from me. Emma behaves as if she is dying… My x-ray results are really bad, right?"
She was calm and tender. She didn’t complain. She didn’t blame us. She had no hope of easing her own suffering. She just wanted to make it easier for us.
"This is my body, kids. Have a look. I know perfectly well what I have and where."
And she pointed to her spine, vertebrae, and everything else that caused her suffering.
"This damn infection sits here and here… You, sonny, stop consulting with doctors. Stop torturing yourself and me."
I was about to say something, but she interrupted me. "No, kids, I won’t do chemo. I don’t want to lie in bed black all over from chemo. I want to be as I am… as long as possible. I want to walk, hug my grandchildren, kiss them, tickle them, and give them a pinch on their little behinds. I think I have another year or two. I am not afraid of death. No, I am not."
At that moment, her glance sought something – I don’t know what or whom. Then it stopped on me. It stopped on me, became milder and was filled with tenderness. She patted me on the head.
"Don’t be upset, sonny. Everything will be all right."
“My dear Mama," I thought. "I believe you’re not afraid. But it’s me who cannot take it. I can’t see you the way you are without doing anything. I can’t, I can’t… How can I explain that to you?"
In a day or two I resumed my attempts to persuade her. "No chemo, just radiation. That's much easier. It just affects the tumor. Your organism won’t suffer, on the contrary…" I asked, persuaded, explained, and Mama at last agreed to have a radiation session.
It would have been better if she hadn’t.
The room where radiation sessions were performed was cooled to a low temperature to avoid overheating the machines. Overcooling of the patients didn’t seem to bother anyone.
"Please, cover Mama with a sheet," I begged the doctor. "She catches cold easily."
The doctor promised to do it.
Twenty minutes passed, the very long 20 minutes of the radiation session. The door opened, and Mama was led out, nurses supporting her under the arms. What had happened to her face? It was gray.
"Valera, you’ve been cheated. They didn’t cover me with anything."
What I had been afraid of had happened. Mama had gotten a chill, and other consequences of the radiation turned out to be no better. Mama had no appetite. She was losing weight. She refused to drink herbal brews. Her depression intensified.
I blamed myself for everything. I tormented myself. Why had I insisted on that damn radiation session? I bothered doctor Umarov with telephone calls. Our kind tabib came to visit. He brought new combinations of herbs that would boost Mama’s immune system. Only powerful resistance from her organism could prolong Mama’s life. We both understood that if Mukhitdin had been with us, he would have noticed any slight changes in Mama’s condition. He could have prevented some things. But what could we do? There, in Namangan, his students and his hundreds of patients awaited him. The telephone helped out. After asking me many detailed questions, Mukhitdin would give some advice and send new combinations of herbs.
By midsummer of 1999 Mama felt awful. It was necessary to send her to the hospital to have liquid pumped out of her lungs several times.
“Mama is tired. Ah, she’s so very tired,” I repeated to myself. I could see that, but there was something else I wasn't aware of. Not only was she not afraid of dying, she wanted to leave this world.
How strange it was. We had switched roles. Now it was Mama who had a secret – a desire to pass away. It was her secret because even now she did everything possible not to upset us, her children. She tolerated pain without complaining. She only asked for a stronger painkiller. Out of love and pity for us, she tried to deceive us, just as we had deceived her before. She hid her secret, and I didn’t notice or sense anything at all. I was striving to do what I had been doing – to prolong, prolong, prolong her life, which was so dear to us but so torturous and unbearable for her…
…Mama was at the hospital again. We were in her room, I and Dr. Spivak, her physician, a man my age with a kind face and broad shoulders. Mama lay with her eyes closed. An intravenous drip attached to her arm, so thin and motionless. The doctor put his hand on my shoulder and motioned with his head at the door. We left the room.
"Doctor, what about another…" "I uttered one of the thoughts that crossed my mind at feverish speed.
"Valera," the doctor interrupted me, his eyes sad. "Valera, it’s not often that we meet children like you and your sister. Your mama… Everyone on this floor talks about you, about how much you love her and take care of her. They all see it, Valera. But you don’t see the most important thing. Your mama wants to die. She has no strength to continue suffering."
At first, I didn’t quite understand him. What nonsense was that? Mama didn’t want to live? She had no more strength? That meant it was necessary to help her to mobilize her energy. It was necessary to bring back her desire to live. That’s what we were striving for. Who could stop children’s desire to prolong their mother’s life? That was our right.
Dr. Spivak was looking at me sadly and calmly.
"Valera… it’s her life. It’s her right to live or not to live. I am doing everything possible to prolong her life. But she doesn’t want it. She told me herself… herself. There's a limit to one’s strength. It’s something one’s soul dictates. Believe me, I’m a physician. Think about it… You’ve done all you could do."
Emma, my little sister, was waiting for me in the corridor. We hadn’t seen each other since the day before.
"Valery," she said. "Mama wants to pass away. Mama’s requesting…"
And Emma told me that the night before, when she was in Mama’s room, Dr. Spivak had stopped by to give an injection of painkiller. Mama thought it was the injection that would allow her to pass away. She cried happy tears and blessed the doctor…
Emma interpreted her blessing…
Then the three of them were crying…
The three of them were in agreement. Now it was up to me to consent.
Chapter 19. Give Me Your Advice, Mama
It’s me, Mama, Valera, your son. Let’s talk. I need your advice. You don’t need to answer me. Just listen.
We’ve been together for such a long time, actually not that long… You’ve always been by my side. I can’t imagine life without you. You’ve always supported me. You’ve always been my friend. Remember, I’ve always asked for your advice, and even when you answered, 'Do as you find proper, sonny,' it was important for me to hear your voice.
And now… I also need your advice.
It concerns a woman, a young good-looking woman. I remember her very healthy… She’s very dear to me. We’ve always been together…
Mom, do you remember how we laughed when you told me about my two-year-old redheaded self running around our courtyard with my empty potty, banging it against the walls like a hammer?
Mom, do you remember taking us to Grandma’s place in the Old City before going to work? Do you remember our walk to the streetcar stop? You had Emma in your arms, and I ran behind you, barely managing to keep up with you and whining. “Mom, Emma ei, Emma ei, I opp-la!” And you would answer, “But she's your little sister.”
Remember about the cigarettes? How old was I? Must have been 18… You must have seen a pack of cigarettes. I thought, “Now I’ll get a scolding.” Cigarettes were taboo in our family. Well, any of my friends would have gotten a scolding for that. But you did it in a very special way. I don’t remember you ever scolding anyone. You sat down next to me and told me a funny story about your brother and cigarettes. We were both laughing so hard.
Well… What did I want to tell you? You see, this woman, my friend, is not well, not at all. And the doctor says that I must part with her, that I must leave her alone, only help her to reduce the pain. What should I do with this pain that’s in my heart? What should I do? I don’t want it. I can’t let her go. Mama, I don’t want to give up! We’ve been fighting for so many years.
Mama, can you hear me? I need your advice…
Her answer came a few hours later.
It seemed to me that she was dozing or semi-conscious. Then suddenly her eyes were wide open and she tore off the oxygen mask. I rushed to put it back, but she held the mask firmly in her hand. I tried to take it away from her, tried to persuade her, “Mama, you need to put it back on.” Looking at something up above, she wheezed, “That’s enough! Everything’s been done…”
I still managed to get the mask back on, even though I knew I had her answer.
Mama passed away on a warm September morning. It was a few days before the Jewish High Holy Days.
She passed away quietly. We were all at her bedside.
That day was Labor Day and the cemetery was closed. They opened it for us and arranged the burial, as Mama would say, by God’s will.
It had been raining since morning. The weather cried along with us. Then the sky was revealed, and the sun shone over that green suburban place in Long Island, warming the soil that had been waiting for Mama for such a long time.
Chapter 20. “After I’m Gone…”
That’s what Mama used to say shortly before her death, telling us precisely and in detail about what would happen after she was gone, about forthcoming events, important and insignificant.
Before her body was cold, all that began to happen.
The week of remembrance begins right after the funeral. This week is called Shiva, which means “seven” in Hebrew. Children, brothers and sisters of the deceased spend it together according to the custom. They spend a week at home remembering and talking about the deceased.
That was what we dedicated our time to. Emma, as well as Avner and Marusya, Mother’s brother and sister, spent that week at our house. We were sitting on the rug-covered floor near the couch in the living room. That was also a part of the ritual – being comfortable was not allowed.
How strange it was to talk about our mama in the past tense, strange and difficult, unbelievably difficult. Yes, today she had been buried and she was no longer with us. I knew it, I remembered, but the feeling that she was still here didn’t want to deal with that. She was not there, but why did I hear her footsteps on the staircase coming down from her bedroom? The steps of the staircase creaked slightly, one after another… eight… nine… And exactly where it had always happened, a short pause. Mama had reached the middle of the staircase and stopped for a moment to take in the part of the living room she could see. One of her feet was in midair for she was about to continue descending the steps. When she saw all of us sitting on the floor, she shook her head in perplexity and lit us all up, the room and the whole world, with her unforgettable sunny smile.
I shook my head and the vision disappeared, but the pain that had settled in my chest remained. A minute passed, and Mama was there, sitting on her favorite corner of the couch, right near the spot on the couch on which I was leaning. I moved my elbow away and shook my head again.
"There is no doubt about it," Uncle Avner said, as if he felt the same thing I did. "There is no doubt about it. Mama’s spirit is hovering over us. It sees and hears everything. It protects us."
My sister nodded, her face mournful. Perhaps it was more difficult for her than it was for me. I had concealed the true state of things from her for so many years. I had been protecting her from grief, but now the grief befell her unprepared soul with such terrible force. I knew that Emma reproached me, that she was even angry, but I had done it out of love for her, out of love. After Mama passed away, we grew somewhat closer. We felt our blood relation even stronger. And now we wouldn’t want anything to harm our friendship… Hadn’t Mama meant it when she often repeated an Asian saying, “Blood relatives are drawn to blood relatives, just as strangers are drawn to each other.”
What a pity I hadn’t written down Mama’s sayings. They had always been wise and pointed. Many things I heard from her had been handed down from parents to children for centuries. She had such a clear mind. Now it was our turn to hand them down to our children. Would we be able to? I hadn't written down anything I had heard. I had always thought that I would have time to do it, always thought that parents would always be there for us…
Emma, dressed in black, sighed again. She sat, resting her cheek on her hand. She was tall and slender – any outfit was becoming on her.
"Mama gave it to me," she said, patting her blouse, after she caught my eye. "A year ago, she said, 'You’ll wear it for my funeral.' And I did. In general, do you notice that everything is happening the way she said it would?” Oh Mama, Mama, how did you know it all beforehand? You knew everything down to the last small detail.
I nodded. I could also tell her something. “When I’m gone,” she used to say, “they will all come to my funeral… you’ll see… to make up with you.”
“They all…” I saw them at the synagogue this morning just as Mama had said – aged, with gray hair. Never mind them. I didn’t want to think about them, to remember anything, to talk about anything… neither now nor during the funeral, as I was standing by the synagogue. It was solemn and quiet there. The white columns, the high ceiling, the resounding granite floors… A morning breeze, tender and warm, was flowing into the synagogue through the massive wide-open door. It was blowing on my head, playing with my hair… Was it just the wind? It was Mama’s day… Her spirit was soaring above us, and nothing bothered it now. All it had was love, love, love for us…
"The spirit of the deceased," I heard Uncle Avner’s voice. Our thoughts and feelings were interwoven in the most amazing way that day. "The spirit, though bodiless and invisible, is endowed with limitless power and of course it can read our thoughts… Who knows? It can even appear if we summon it. We sometimes feel it."
"Yes, yes," my sister nodded.
"Look here," the uncle said. "I remember how I buried my mother, your Grandma Abigai… The winter weather was very bitter as we were taking her body from Tashkent to Samarkand to bury her next to Grandpa. That’s how she wanted it. I don’t know how we managed to get over the mountain pass. It was awfully slippery. As we were approaching the city, I thought, how will we be able to bury her? The ground is too frozen to dig a grave.”
Uncle pressed his knees against his chest and cleared his throat.
"You may explain it as you like, but I say that the spirit of a deceased person is endowed with power. As we approached Samarkand, considerable warming began. Ice started melting on the road, turning into slush. We buried your Grandma Abigai that day. Her spirit must have heard about our worries and helped us," the agitated uncle said.
It’s possible to laugh at superstitions, to reject them as much as you want, to understand that they don’t stand up to the harsh criticism of reason, that they are nothing but soothing fairy tales we inherit from our childhood, but people need these fairy tales. They ennoble us. They help us live. And when we love our dear ones, they help us to feel their presence, not just in our memory but also in nature, in the universe, so let’s allow ourselves to be superstitious if that is healthy for our souls.
As for Emma, she supported Uncle ardently, having no doubts about the unlimited power of spirits. In Uncle Avner she found a person to talk to who share