Oh, it's summer.

Oh, it is summer now and the solstice just past this way a few days ago leaving this world light just that much longer but with a slightly sad feeling that now the days are getting shorter. So, as we roller coast down ever so slowly, get yourself out of your houses and walk a trail. Go to a park. Ponder on the carbon debts (well, skip that one).

I would reflect here a bit on my nephew, but it is better to contact me directly though I will include a note that I wrote to the ephemeral G-ds who I am sure linger out there somewhere.

On Being There

We all have received, or will receive, those late night calls which will make us catch our breath, make us stop in our tracks like deer caught in the wandering eye of a fast moving train. The calls that I have received over the years announcing the news of the sickness or death of a friend, a family member, or a long forgotten acquaintance, have stung deeply. Because of the distance and the related expense, I have not traveled back to say those final goodbyes but instead called, sent cards or mailed letters. Distances force you to do those things. Yet the late night call I received three weeks ago, the one announcing the death of my two-year-old nephew, that call had me packing within minutes.

The call I received set into motion a series of events that those living overseas are probably familiar with as well. First, there is the phone call. The voice on the other end tells you almost immediately that something is wrong. I needed only to hear, “Jamie, I tried to reach you before but…” From that point on I knew that this perfunctory greeting was leading to something serious, something that would floor me in just another moment.

And in the interim, your mind races frantically ahead. Who’s hurt? Who’s dying? Who is already dead?

Yet you are never prepared, never ready never toughened for the suddenness of a family loss or a family tragedy. Being told that your two-year old nephew is in a coma and that he most likely will not recover, broadsides you or anyone caught in the path of such a pronouncement. I listened to my younger brother in silence and then told him that I would call him back in a few moments as I had to first process this information and then figure out what to do from almost 6,000 miles away.

But first I had to pace. I was alone in my Tel Aviv apartment with just my faithful old dog who in her deafness could not hear the guttural sounds that were issuing forth from my lips. She did however look up from her pillow as I paced in circles round and round my living room. My wife was at a wedding in Spain. My son was at university. So for a few moments I paced to collect my thoughts and figure out what to do next.

In any crisis though, you have only so much time that you can let the emotions of a situation paralyze you before you need to act. Therefore, after a few moments of pacing, I picked up the phone and first called my wife in Spain, then my boss, then the airline to get a ticket. Only then did I call my brother back.

Flying to the states, I did not know if my nephew had passed away or if he was still in a coma. I did know that my brother and sister-in-law had decided to donate his organs. It would not be until I landed and made my way back to family in West Hartford that I would learn he had been taken off life-support and that those organs that could be harvested were given to other needy individuals.

He was two. He had blonde hair and blue eyes. He had a mischievous grin and was adored by all who knew him. But he was two.

At his funeral, I peered at his diminutive coffin juxtaposed next to the eternal hole in the ground that stood so close by. I listened to the words spoken about this child and the short life he had lived at the gravesite by an obviously shaken Rabbi not used to, as nobody ever can be, presiding over such an event. While the song of the cantor wafted fragilely from her lips, deep and sonorous sobs issued forth from so many who had gathered tightly in a semi-circle around the coffin.

It is three weeks later. After the funeral and after the shiva, I went back to Israel to finish my school year. Our school is moving and when I came back; all my belongings were in boxes. In fact, almost the entire school had been boxed and only the teachers remained. I had missed finals week and the graduations. It had all been a dream.

I have tried to process such a loss and understand it better. I have seen horror in my time and comprehend fully how fragile and valuable life is for all of us. I have seen body parts scraped from the sides of buildings after a suicide bomber denoted himself in Tel Aviv. I have been on the scene of a bicyclist senselessly struck down by an errant motorist. My wife’s father lived through the Holocaust, but he was the only member on his side of the family to survive. Yet, this knowledge and these experiences do not make the processing of this any easier.

Three weeks later, I have returned to Connecticut and for once, I have nothing to say. No answers, no suggestions that I can offer. You cannot tell a grieving parent that time will mollify the pain. I do not think it can and I do not think it does. You can’t tell them that you feel their hurt, for in this world you can only feel your own hurt. All you can do, all anyone can do, is be there.