It Could Have Been Me: In Memory of Helen Bailey

When I read about the brutal murder of Helen Bailey I knew right away that it could have been me. Helen Bailey (1964 - 2016) was a British author who wrote teen fiction. She was also a widow.

In 2011, at the age of 46 while on vacation in Barbados, Bailey's husband of 22 years died suddenly. He went into the sea for a morning swim, was caught in a riptide and drowned. In her own words she was still  a “wife at breakfast” and became a “widow by lunch."

In spite of her deep mourning, Bailey did everything within her power to get better and move on. She sought the help of a bereavement coach who helped her deal with her grief, she wrote a blog called Planet Grief, in which she detailed her struggle to cope with the sudden loss of her husband, and she joined an online support group for people who had lost their spouses.

And then something joyful happened, after eight months of widowhood she met through that group a  “gorgeous grey-haired widower" (her words), whose wife died suddenly in 2010.

Helen Bailey probably felt that she met a kindred spirit. They started out as friends, then grew closer, started dating and finally moved in together and bought an old house in Royston, Hertfordshire

According to her bereavement coach, Helen Bailey was a person who wanted to feel “secure and safe”, like she had with her late husband. She added that “there was never any inkling or sign that she was anything but safe” with her new partner.

It seems that after her world was shattered, she could rebuild her life with her new partner Ian Stewart. So in order to make him feel secure as  well, in case she died, Bailey changed her will and left him all her money, She gave him  power of attorney as well.

People love a happy ending, and there is nothing more heartwarming than a story about a  widow and a widower who find  love and happiness.

But on April 2016, Helen Bailey disappeared, and three months later her remains were found buried in the Royston house. Her new partner was charged with her murder.

I am almost certain that most of the people who read about Helen Bailey and her tragic death ask themselves how could she have been so naïve and so blind? Didn’t she suspect anything?

But to me as a widow it makes perfect sense:  I was not used to being suspicious, I had no reason to. Moreover, in the first year of mourning, when I was hungry for warmth and kindness, I trusted people even more. I can even identify with Bailey’s wish to insure the future of her new partner in the event of her death. Hadn't he suffered enough?

Actually, apart for the ending, my own biography is almost identical to that of Helene Bailey. My husband died when I was relatively young, I was helped by a kind bereavement coach, and like her, I found my partner another “gray haired gorgeous widower” online.

My partner and I were both safe and secure in our previous life, and that is why we  were not used to being suspicious. We were probably naïve, but we gained a lot by being able to trust each other.

This is a horrifying story for everyone, but it is especially scary for widows. Still l believe that it is better to be generous and trusting, like Helen Bailey, than to lose your faith in love and humanity. I am so sad that she was proven wrong.

The post appeared in the Times of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/it-could-have-been-me-in-memory-of-helen-bailey/

My Husband's Last Words And The Road To Recovery

My husband’s last words to me were: “Drive carefully.”

It was night at the hospital and my daughter and I were leaving to go home for a couple of hours.  At that stage, he could no longer speak, so he wrote those words in a special notebook. He didn’t write that he loved me or ask me to take good care of our daughters. But when I looked at his words, I understood that that was what he'd meant.

Living in the suburbs for many years first in the US and later on in Israel, driving was a central part of our life. Still, my husband never completely trusted me, and suspected that when I was preoccupied or upset, I didn’t pay enough attention to the road.

He was right.

This instruction had a clear and literal meaning. He just wanted to make sure that we would make it home safely at that dreadful day. But I feel that those seemingly simple words have a broader, even symbolic meaning.

For me, his words implied that he expected me to move ahead, but to be cautious. At the time, focusing on the world around me was a real challenge. It took a while to be able to make sense of what was there, and then to bring myself to make plans for the future.

Throughout the years, whenever we went on vacation, my husband and I took turns driving. Now it was only me; no one would take over when I got tired.  

Many believe that last words sum up who the person is. In the case of my husband, I feel that his last words illuminated an important aspect of his personality.

When he was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer five months earlier, my husband told me that he had made a decision to be a role model to our daughters during his illness. I am convinced that this choice made it easier for him to come to terms with his imminent death. He even decided on a motto for this "project."  Paraphrasing a well-known political saying, we were expected to fight cancer as though there was no death, and to make peace with death by being prepared.

For example, since my husband was the one responsible for our finances, we went through all the books and wrote down the names and numbers of important contacts. We were prepared. But we kept the information in a folder with the cheery name, "After 120. " We were hopeful.

Although my husband refused to call it a battle, we lost him to cancer at the age of 55. It was nine years ago this week. To this day, whenever I get into my car, I think of his warning, especially if I am not at my best. It always cheers me to remember that even when he knew that he was dying, my husband did not miss the opportunity to take care of us one last time.

--

PS: The inspiration for this post was an episode of This American Life about last words.

"To live in hearts we leave behind/Is not to die.” Thomas Campbell

The essay appeared in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/my-husbands-last-words-and-the-road-to-recovery/

Please Don't Tell Me Everything: A Mother's Viewpoint on the Big Tri

I can’t stop thinking about the mother of the young Israeli who was traveling in the Andes in Western Peru and after feeling unwell, took a bus to get medical help in the capital, Lima, but died before she was able to get there.

The instant messages between mother and daughter, during the last hours of her life, became public. In them the daughter wrote that she was in trouble and the mother, who got the messages few hours later, expressed her hope that by then her daughter was doing better. Those comforting and familiar words of the mother make this tragedy so real and personal.

The accessibility of different modes of communication such as WhatsApp and Skype, makes staying in touch with the traveling kids much easier. As today WIFI could be found even in the most remote places on the globes, it seems that the youngsters have not gone far. Indeed many of them keep in touch with life here in Israel, and in turn their parents almost participate in the journey.

Please keep reading in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/please-dont-tell-me-everything-a-mothers-viewpoint-on-the-big-trip/

We Still Have Choices: Cancer Patients and Their Families

In recent weeks, I hear on the radio, almost every day, another heart wrenching story about the end of life and the accessibility of life-extending drugs.

It is so hard to know what to do in such cases especially as we hope that staying alive and hanging in there, with the help of life extending drugs, could mean that perhaps in the meantime a new cure would appear on the market.

We made our choice and there is no way to tell if things could have been different had we made another decision.

In late 2006, my husband, a healthy man of 54, went to a conference in South Korea. He came back with a pain in his leg which turned out to be a blood cloth. For a while the doctors believed that his condition was caused from sitting down long hours during the flight, but short time later he was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer.

My husband, a practical engineer, asked his doctor how long he had to live, the answer was that normally in similar cases, the prognosis was death in less than a year.

My husband considered not taking any chemical treatment, but his doctor convinced him that, in spite of the side effects, chemotherapy could help him feel better and breathe easier. Thus,  instead of being a “dead man walking” (his words), he decided to  receive chemotherapy.

The first course of chemo was not effective, I can still feel the pain in my stomach once we got back the results of the PET Scan.

The doctor suggested a new drug, tablets which worked differently and were less harsh on the patients. At that time, Tarceva (erlotinib), was not covered by our health care provider or by our additional insurance.

We wrote a letter to both insurances asking to allow us to receive the drug, but our request was denied. Thus, my husband got another treatment, which apparently was too aggressive, and he died  few days after receiving the second dose, only 5 months after the diagnosis.

Because of the way it works, Tarceva could have made his last months easier, and indeed it became part of the standard treatment for advanced-stage non-small cell lung cancer soon after my husband passed away.

Of course, he wanted to live, and like many other cancer patients my husband agreed to try all kinds of costly natural remedies. But what helped him most was his decision, which he made once he was diagnosed, to be a role model to his daughters at that difficult time.

I believe that this was also the reason why he chose not to complain about the Tarceva's decision, or to contest it. Being prudent with our money, he also didn’t consider buying it in the private market.

Instead, he kept busy: he continued teaching, talked to us about the future, made plans and even forced me to go over the books with him and to write down important names and phone numbers. In those five months we sold our house in the suburb and bought a new one closer to town. I moved there on my own few months after he died.

Whenever I hear about a new drug for lung cancer I am pleased for the cancer patients, but feel a pang in my heart. We received a death sentence and had no medical answers.  However, after taking a deep a breath, I try to remember that at least my husband had the freedom to choose the way he wanted to spend his last days, and I know that those decisions made our life without him much more bearable.

In memory of Tzvi Raz, 1951--2007

The essay appeared in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/we-still-have-choices-cancer-patients-and-their-families/

Black/Israeli/Palestinian Lives Matter

Soon after the murder of the two African Americans, Michael Brown and Eric Garner, at the hands of the police, we were walking one night in New York City and came across a demonstration. The protesters were chanting “Black Lives Matter.” At that time, December 2014, there were many similar street protests, against police brutality toward black people, especially young black men.

Black Lives Matter started on social media, in 2013, with the use of the hashtag  #BlackLivesMatter. It has turned into an international activist movement which campaigns against violence toward black people.

That motto became so powerful that in 2014 the American Dialect Society chose “Black Lives Matter” as “the words of the year.”

In spite of the grim circumstances, which brought about the demonstrations, and led to the emergence of this grassroots movement, the words Black Lives Matter have a constructive and hopeful message.

This motto does not choose to dwell on the past, it doesn’t seek revenge for crimes which were committed against the black community. Moreover, it doesn't speak against police aggression or elaborate on the plight of the black victims.

Instead, this brilliant slogan, with only 3 simple words, focuses on life itself and emphasizes its value. But, it doesn't refer only to the life of the individual, the existence of the Black collective depends on cherishing and saving those lives

If such a short motto chooses to emphasize that Black lives matter, it should remind everyone how fragile, even endangered, those lives are, and therefore should  be filled with significance and handled with care.

The frustration and despair following the incidents of police brutality, and the general feeling that justice was not served, caused activists, within the black community, who had lost faith in the system, to look for another direction. Thus they came up with this message that could appeal to everyone inside and outside the black community.

This universal truth in this motto made me think that such a movement with a similar message could work in the Israeli Palestinian conflict as well.

Recently in the middle of the knives Intifada when we met with Palestinian people through the Narratives Projects of the Parents Circle, one of the Palestinian women, a mother in her thirties, admitted that the most she could do at this point was to make sure that her teenage son stayed at home, so he wouldn’t throw stones at soldiers and of course wouldn’t carry a knife.

It sounded familiar, I had heard it often before, on American radio, and on television, from mothers of kids growing up in poor areas in the US. They too professed that their ability to control or supervise their kids’ actions was limited and often they felt powerless.

But this motto Black Lives Matter could remind the kids, their parents, their families, teachers and the adults around them that they should be careful and cherish their lives.

Within Israeli society we also hear from Israeli parents about their inability to control their kids. One  example is the extreme case of the Hill-Top Youth in the settlements. Only recently we were shocked  to hear, from parents, the inside story of those youth who live outside society on the hills of the occupied territories and are engaged in risky behaviors and commit serious crimes against Palestinian.

Whether they are Black, Israelis or Palestinians young people would benefit from internalizing the message that life matters. Moreover, it is time to replace the old heroic motto with a new one which insists that it is preferable to live for our country than to die for it.

The essay appeared  in the Times of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/blackisraelipalestinian-lives-matter/

My Mother’s Wish

When I was a young child my mother took care of a cancer patient, who was also a medical doctor. Then suddenly she was gone. I didn’t think about it much and didn't ask my mother. But when I was  older my mother and I once walked by that woman's house.  My  mother asked me "do you remember the time when I cared for the doctor who lived here?"  I said yes that I remembered her and asked my mother  what had happened to her. My mother told me that one of her friends "helped her," and explained that this was a kind of "professional courtesy" carried out by doctors to help  the suffering of one of their own. 

My mother wasn't much of a talker, but at that point i was old enough to understand exactly what she meant.  never heard about it before and my mother was "only a nurse," but I  promised  myself that, when the time comes, if needed, I would do my best to help my mother.  

My mother studied to become a nurse in Mandatory Palestine. In 1936 two new hospitals were founded in Palestine, one in Jerusalem and another one in Petach Tikva near Tel Aviv, and they also offered nursing training. My mother, who immigrated with her family a year earlier, was one of the first nurses to be trained in Tel Aviv.

Growing up in Israel in the early 60s, not many of us had a working mother. Mine worked as a nurse in our community until she retired and was always passionate about nursing and proud of her vocation.

When I was myself a mother we lived in the US, and whenever my daughters were ill they asked me to call their grandmother so that she could give them, over the phone, a medical advice and some kind words.

We returned to Israel in 1994, two years prior to my mother’s passing. I feel grateful for the gift of those two precious years.

It was only natural that when my mother was hospitalized due to strong abdominal pain I remembered my promise, and as soon as she was diagnosed with cancer I asked to see the doctor  and specifically asked him about the hospital's policy regarding euthanasia. My brother, who sat next to me, was startled; he obviously had not talked with my mother about this topic and was not aware of her wish. But I was calm, and the doctor who promised that he would do his best for my mother, was professional and forthcoming.

The next day I took my mother for an additional exam. She sat in a wheelchair and on the way we passed through a beautiful garden overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. “Look mommy” I said, “This is such a beautiful spot.” My mother, who used to love the sea, seemed detached and said nothing. I realized that she was getting ready to leave. When she asked me a little later to take home some of her things, because she “won’t be needing them anymore,” I didn’t protest, and accepted that it was her time.

My mother died that night, for weeks I was relieved, even glad, that her suffering ended. Then I started noticing that something unusual happened. My mother became part of me, and there was plenty of room for the two of us, it felt natural and comfortable.

I just got off the phone with my brother, and as usual we talked about our childhood. We laughed that our mother always asked him not to tell dirty jokes in front of the kleine (my brother is seven years older than me). My mother was right, I was still the little one when she left me at the age of 40, and even today twenty years later, I still get embarrassed when I hear bad language or dirty jokes and I need my mother to protect me.

"Not every death is the end of a well lived life"

At the hospital where my husband was being treated for cancer, Chemotherapy was administered in a communal room.There were several armchairs for patients, and some regular chairs for family members. The whole process took several hours, and we had to somehow pass the time. So, with everyone around,  it became an opportunity to talk, a kind of spontaneous support group.

One Friday we were only four in the room: my husband and I, another middle-aged man, like us, and a young woman. We started talking, and she told us about her life and her illness. It transpired that she recently had got married and had a small baby.

Suddenly the man, who sat with us, blurted, “ It is so unfair that you are sick, you are so young, and have a baby."

Please keep reading in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/not-every-death-is-the-end-of-a-well-lived-life/

Tomorrow Is Promised To No One:” Clichés Which Make Death More Palatable

JUL.27.2013

 Two English friends were discussing a mutual friend who recently passed away. One of my friends said “I am so sorry that I missed my chance of seeing her again and now it is too late.” I knew exactly what she meant, as it has also happened to me. Death leaves you with a helpless feeling of missed opportunities.

When my husband died, a friend quoted the expression: “tomorrow is promised to no one,” and I often reflect on the different meanings of this saying. I also ask myself why it is that so many insights concerning our fate are formulated in expressions, idioms and cliches: “Carpe diem,” for example, is an empowering way of saying that you may not live to see tomorrow.

 Since “an opportunity missed is an opportunity lost,” when a tragedy occurs we often make resolutions on “how to make every moment count,” and how we should lead our life while we can still “wake up and smell the coffee.”

 But as it is a heavy burden to “live every day like it is our last,” we often go back to the way we were before calamity struck. From my personal experience and from talking to other widows, I feel that disasters could be an opportunity to re-examine beliefs, attitudes and positions which are no longer relevant, and to make changes: “When life gives you lemons make lemonade”

The concept of making changes, makes me think of Stevens, the protagonist and narrator of  The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. This is a novel about passivity and resignation which lead to missed opportunities and regrets. Stevens, the head butler at Darlington Hall, is a man whose  inner self is clogged up with irrelevant beliefs, attitudes and positions.

Here are two examples:

 “What is the point of worrying oneself too much about what one could or could not have done to control the course one's life took?”

Or:

“In any case, while it is all very well to talk of 'turning points', one can surely only recognize such moments in retrospect.”

Stevens' worldview results in paralysis. Luckily we often do recognize our “turning points” in time, and are able to regain control, take action and make changes in our life.

Perhaps the answer to my question about overuse of cliches is that they comfort us and help us brave "what is waiting for us around the corner.” Moreover, those expressions emphasizes that we all "are in the same boat."

So while sailing, next time “when life deals us a tough blow” let’s make a large glass of lemonade, toast it and “seize the day!”

“Tis A Fearful Thing To Love What Death Can Touch”

September 11, 2013

My husband’s last words to me were “drive carefully.” It was night at the hospital and my daughter and I were just leaving to go home for a couple of hours.  At that time he could no longer speak so he wrote those words in a little note book. He didn’t write that he loved me or asked me to take good care of our daughters. But when I looked at his words I understood that this was what he meant.

Living in the suburb for many years in the US and later on in Israel, driving was a central part of our life. Still Tzvi, my husband felt that when I got distracted or upset,  I didn’t pay enough attention to my driving. By making them his last words, Tzvi added  significance to his warning making sure that indeed I was being extra careful  at the time of grief.   

Tzvi’s instruction had a clear and literal meaning, he just wanted us to get home safely.  But I feel that these seemingly simple words have a broader, even symbolic meaning. 

In the past whenever our family went on vacation Tzvi and I always took turns driving, now I was the only driver, literally and metaphorically. I was left in charge and it became my sole responsibility to take care of my family in and out of the car.  

By instructing me to drive carefully Tzvi implied that he expected me to move forward, yet  at the same time he was warning me to pay attention. Six years later these words seem straightforward, but at the time it was quite impossible to focus on the world around me. It took time to be able to make sense of what was there, and then to commit to what lay ahead.

The inspiration to this  post was an episode of This American Life about last words which I listened to today 9.11 as I was skating in the park.

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/114/last-words

In the prologue Ira Glass states that last words often sum up who the person is. In the case of Tzvi  they illuminated one important aspect of his personality –that of a family man: the husband, father and educator. When he was diagnosed  he told me that he wished to conduct himself as a role model to our daughters.  He chose as a motto a paraphrase on Rabin’s declaration of intent: “we will fight terror as though there was no peace, and will make peace as though there was no terror.” In our case it was “we will fight cancer as though there was no death, but we will make peace with death by being prepared.”

We lost our battle, but it always cheers me up to think that even when death was imminent Tzvi did not miss the opportunity to take care of us one last time.

PS.  Although I heard the epitaph which  I chose for the title today on This American Life, it is part of a poem by the great  Jewish poet Judah Halevi, 1075 – 1141

“Tis a Fearful Thing

‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –

to be,
And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

And a holy thing,

a holy thing
to love.

For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.” 

 Judah Halevi

An Unexpected Boon

 - SEP.22.2013 - 

Almost two years after my husband’s passing I got a surprising email from a woman with a familiar name.  Although I had never met her, I knew of her existence, heard stories about her and even saw her photo together with my husband, as she was his first great love.

My husband and I met when we were 22 and 19 respectively, he was a first year student at the university and I was a soldier. Thus, that love had taken place when they even younger. But these were the days around the Yom Kippur War (1973) and  young  people were serious, anxious, and intense. I never doubted the depth of their feelings or the significance of their relationship.

Throughout the years my husband mentioned her but never expressed a wish to seek her out. Also her family name was a very common name in Israel, and it was would have been quite a challenege to track her down.

Thinking back I don’t remember ever feeling jealous of the love that my husband had for her. The two of us met six months after the war and a short while after they parted.  I felt sorry for his plight, going through a war, combined with the grief over the loss of his love. 

When my husband got ill,  I had a sudden urge to let her know, but I didn’t mention it to him, and then suddenly he said that he was thinking of her.

After my husband died I remembered her again, but had no idea where to find her. Part of the magic of their love was that they met outside their ordinary life in time of war and did not have even a single friend in common.

Then came her email, she only wrote that she had known my husband before his university days, nothing else about their past. She added that she was very sorry, that she has just then found out.  I wrote back telling her how much my husband loved her, and that we, his family, knew what she has meant to him. We arranged to speak and then to meet.

From the first time that we met we felt a bond; like me she is a widow who lost her husband to cancer. In other respects we are not alike, but we both loved the same man. 

This month we commemorate 40 years to the Yom Kippur War; the men of my generation are still haunted by the trauma of this war. In retrospect I believe that for my husband the bitter memories of those turbulent times were somewhat alleviated by the sweetness of his first love.

And I got unexpected boon when this new/old  friend entered  into my life willing to share with me an unknown chapter of my husband’s past. 

Keywords:

Lonely In Jerusalem

12.31.2013 - 

After the army, my brother moved to Jerusalem to study at the Hebrew University. For me, seven years his junior, his life there seemed like pure magic, and I knew that this was exactly what I wanted for myself. So when the time came, I too enrolled at the Hebrew University, fully expecting the same.

However, in the meantime, between enrollment and the start of Fall semester, something significant and unexpected had happened. I fell in love with a young man who eventually became my husband. Tzvi was a student in Haifa, some 200 km north of Jerusalem. As Haifa was my hometown, the idea of attending school there seemed out of the question; besides, my boyfriend never explicitly asked me to stay.

Because of our new circumstances, Tzvi and I looked for an apartment in Jerusalem which could accomodate both of us on the weekends. We  found a studio apartment in a residential neighbourhood; there were no students around, but it promised privacy.

Together we fixed up the apartment and made it cozy and attractive; everything was perfect. But when the semester started and Tzvi went back to Haifa, I was left there all alone, and knew no one in  that city.

My brother was no longer in town, and he had left me the phone number of his good friends. I decided to call them and they invited me for dinner on  that same night.  I had never met them before, and thought that they were much older than me, they were married, had a little boy, in short they were a family. In reality they were graduate students in their late twenties, yet everything about them seemed sophisticated and glamorous.

They were also warm and hospitable, and encouraged me to come over as often as I wished. If I hadn’t had pride I would have gone there almost every day, but I spaced the days between my visits carefully so that I wouldn’t seem desperate. I didn’t want them to know that I was lonely.

I was a student at the university of my choice, and had my own studio apartment, and still I was unhappy. In my enthusiasm about having a place for us on the weekends, I had forgotten about all the days in between. I spoiled my university experience by isolating myself and ended up not living the life that I had hoped to have. But I was only 19 and didn’t know how to fix it. Visiting the lovely family and seeing their happy life emphasized all that was wrong with my own.

I decided to move  back to Haifa, and several months later got married. Haifa University wasn't that bad after all, and while we didn’t have a typical university experience, it was fine, and we were very happy.

Afterwards as an adult, I only saw the kind  family from Jerusalem once or twice.  I always believed that we would meet again, and yet we didn’t. On this day, December 31st 2006, the lovely lady whom I met as a student passed away. I deeply regret that I never got to tell her how meaningful she was to me as the time, and how those happy visits with her  family influenced my decision to marry and start my own family

My sorrow over this missed opportunity brought about change: as "tomorrow is promised to no one," I try, whenever possible, to see those who are dear to me today.

“I'll Think About That Tomorrow “: The Comfort of Denial

Sometimes I hear people remark “she is in complete denial,” several years ago that's probably how they described me. They could not have known, but at that time I chose denial as a way of life and as the best course of action. After my husband Tzvi was diagnosed with stage 4  lung cancer, and heard from the Oncologist about his prognosis, I decided to put that knowledge aside.

While normally we used to study every  foreseeable situation, this time we didn't. It was better  to spare ourselves, thus we purposely limited our exposure to information.  Strangely enough it was much easier than anticipated as it was clear that nothing good could come from that front.

It is amazing how the mind becomes a willing confederate in such decisions. Although I heard with my own ears that Tzvi had only  9 months to live, I did not listen.  I kept insisting to myself that he was young and strong and would get better. In addition, the doctors kept planting  comforting messages in our minds, or perhaps  we just thought we heard them.  Statements like "you are looking good," were translated into “the treatment works” or “he is going to make it.”

The other day I talked to a friend, who was witnessing  utter denial in similar circustances, and it sent me back to the time of Tzvi's illness. I believe that although it was hard, perhaps painful for others to watch my self-deception, it made life better for us. In a way it was like being in love: we placed ourselves in our small cocoon and tried to keep  reality out. Inside we were safe, active and even happy,  as there were many joyful moments in those bleak  months. But there were instances when reality refused to stay out, when Tzvi wanted to talk. Then I really had to listen and even wrote down what he said in a special notebook. Somehow writing made it seem less imminent as though it was something we had to record for future reference.

Another friend told me that when her husband was terminally ill, she knew that he was going to die and could not to deny it. I feel that such realization makes it easier to say good bye, to accept the situation and to get used to the idea of the day after. I chose not to see that far.

If there is an insight to share from my plight, it is that being energetic and hopeful  doesn’t mean that you don't know the truth. It only indicates that in the meantime you choose not to deal with it. In short, there are times when Scarlett O'Hara's technique of  “I'll think about that tomorrow,” is a recommended option.