The Miracle of the Oil for Ida

[Editor’s Note: Merle Gross has submitted two entries that appeared in Expired and Inspired previously. This story refers to one of those pieces, and the publication of that piece sets the stage for this one. JB]

Please note that, despite its “Web” address, Kavod v’Nichum is really more about living than “dying”. Many of you know that Barry and I have been “involved” with the Chevra Kadisha at Anshe Emet Synagogue. I attempt to recruit volunteers but I know to NOT push. I suspect that many of you have some curiosity but not quite enough to pursue the conversation. (I am always optimistic about the likelihood of your interest in the future. I see the double meaning and I will leave it at that.)

Those of you who have been receiving our travel stories may recall that being on the list is a guarantee that, post-adventure, we will NOT embark on a travelogue when we see you. We choose to think you were avid readers, familiar with the details of our adventures. We know that if the e-missives did not engage you, neither will our in-person recap. Thus, you are spared.

Similarly, here. Whether you read on or not, I will not speak on this topic in the future unless requested to do so.

When Rabbi Joe Blair’s blog – Expired and Inspired – was launched, readers, subscribers, Kavod v’Nichum supporters and members were invited to submit experiential “contributions”.  I did just that. The pieces were received graciously and I was assured that they would be “published” online. Well, I read the blog all the time and, many weeks ago, I began to think my essays might be redundant. When today’s post arrived, I was surprised and more touched than I could have imagined when I discovered my “byline.”  

It is a curious coincidence that tonight we light a Yahrzeit candle in memory of Barry’s mother, Ida Gross, who died in the afternoon of December 27, 1992, Tevet 3, 5753. Sadly, there were many occasions on which we heard her say, “You know, you’ve gotta have mazel to die.” We continue to credit her with that original and easy-to understand aphorism.

Ida was a popular resident of The Breakers, a retirement residence in Chicago, and that year, she was given the honor of lighting the First Chanukah Candle at the building party on Saturday, December 19th. A former actress in Chicago’s Yiddish Theatre, Ida always loved to perform and she sang for and with her neighbors throughout that evening. She was back in her apartment and must have been removing her make-up when she sensed something was wrong; Ida managed to leave her apartment and collapsed just outside her door. We got the call about midnight.

Fifteen minutes later, we were at the hospital. She’d suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage but continued to breathe on her own. We stayed through the night and the next day. Friends and relatives came by and, when the sun set, we said the prayers for lighting the Second Candle and, spontaneously, we all began to sing. Surprisingly, Ida joined in, lifting the fingers of her right hand in sync with our tempo. So we sang on and on and on and she continued tapping out the rhythm until we stopped.     

Each night of Chanukah that year was celebrated in the same way; we “announced” the lighting of the candles, chanted the prayers, and began to sing. EEG’s showed no sign of brain activity; Ida’s strong heartbeat and nightly “drumming” were the only signs of life and connection – and no one could account for it nor could they deny her participation. One day our Rabbi and Chazzan came and visited and chanted the Viddui.

On Saturday, a larger than usual group gathered for the Eighth and final candle lighting. Family, friends and several staff members surrounded the hospital bed and sang or hummed along, and, once again, we all marveled over the fact of Ida’s accompaniment. We wondered what we could do the next night.  

On Sunday, we arrived at the hospital before noon. One of Ida’s sisters and one of her cousins was there already, talking to her, like always. The sun seemed especially bright that day and the room was warmed by it. The rhythm of Ida’s breathing slowed, leaving more and more time between each breath. We knew there was no need to devise a substitute ritual for that night. The Miracle of the Oil….

 On December 26, 2014, I wrote to my friends:

Based on some wonderful responses, I feel certain that the “link” to my “published” essay about a Holocaust survivor friend went unnoticed.  I know for certain that you’ve already read about Ida. Still, I think the “published” account of my experience with my survivor friend gives a better picture of who I am and what I do. I know I should just apologize to everyone, send the “link” again and say nothing more. But….

Kavod v’Nichum “published” on the same day as the Yahrzeit for Ida Gross and that was such a striking coincidence, I felt compelled to add a brief introductory piece as a fitting preface to the essay. The hour grew late and my intended “brief” intro grew into a whole other story (as you see above). In truth, I fell asleep at the keyboard and somehow did “something” at 2:16:02 AM which sent the e-mail before it was quite finished. In the closing sentence, I wanted to acknowledge her “mazeldicke” final week, and note the undeniable metaphor of the “Miracle of the Oil” holiday. She finally had mazel enough to die, at the end of the holiday. Now, I’m finished.

Those last days with Ida reinforced the importance of always maintaining the “conversation,” one-sided though it may seem. That experience heightened our awareness and further strengthened our knowledge-based resolve to always visit the living, not the dying which is the essence of my “message” — in a nutshell, at last!

Merle Gross says about herself: I’ve told my children what I would like etched on whatever stone marks my future grave:  “She was fun while she lasted” (boldface intended). I know how serious a business Life is, and I don’t want to project an image of me as having been a party-girl, not at all.  Simply put, a burial site, for me, is not where my memories of late loved ones reside. I hope that visiting my burial spot won’t feel important to my children—maintaining it? Yes, but visiting it? No. I hope their memories of me will attach to the places we’ve “experienced” together. So, maybe I’m reaching out from the grave to send a sly message, but a valid one aimed at some passerby of the future. Perhaps someone coming to or leaving a funeral will read those words and understand that the late Me felt she had a gravely important message to convey which is, connect in “real” time with loved ones, and strangers, too. At a funeral, doesn’t every attendee hope that any sour, unpleasant memories will fade soon and be replaced with the treasured ones which, more likely, explain why we’re there?

In 2008, when Anshe Emet, our Conservative synagogue in Chicago decided to establish a Chevrah Kadisha, my husband and I volunteered as “charter members”. Barry retired from law practice in 2010, I'd retired from business in 1994, when I sold my women’s clothing manufacturing company. From 1995 until today, I've recorded seventy oral history “interviews” as a trained volunteer in the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation Project, and I’ve had several enriching stints as guide and/or discussion facilitator for Facing History and Ourselves, and Chicago Historical Society exhibits. Currently, my husband and I, respectively, co-ordinate the Men’s and Women's Chevrei Kadisha.