Brisk mornings and gorgeous afternoons have made the beginning of fall official here in Cherry Hill, much welcome after the relentless heat and cold rains of last week. As it is wont to do, autumn makes me nostalgic, reflecting on the various beginnings and endings in my life, and also hopeful, wondering what is to come as the seasons turn.

It also makes me think about Mom. Last week, Dad sent me pictures of her headstone, which will be complete after they sand her name into the stone. On the back of her stone is a design that my father had commissioned: a circle of hydrangeas around the Hebrew Words: “Em Habanim Smeicha” (A Happy Mother of Children). It is really beautiful. Dad said that Mom would have really liked it. I found the statement highly ironic, since if she was around to like it there would be no reason for it to exist.

I think I’ve entered the “reflection” stage of the grief process. As I wrote previously, I was shocked out of the “denial” phase when I watched my father get married, and the door was firmly locked behind me the minute I saw her name on a gravestone. So now I get it –She’s not coming back, ever –and it hurts like hell. In some ways, I wish I could still be in that crazy period when she was sick, even in the last stages when she was dying, because at least she would still be here. At least I could still see her and talk to her. Well-intentioned people like say that I can still talk to her now, but it’s just not the same. So now I just think about her all the time, and I talk about her as much as I can without weirding people out. For just a few seconds, she is alive for me.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about when she was sick, probably because a friend of mine will be going up to Sloan Kettering this week to have a growth removed. Thankfully, the growth is benign, but it’s still been a challenging experience for him and his wife. I wish I didn’t know what they were going through, but I do. I remember the trips to the hospital, the anxiety of waiting for results, the helplessness of knowing it’s all out of your hands. The day my mother had her very first surgery, I was so shaky I dropped my bowl of oatmeal on the floor and cut my ankle on a shard of porcelain. I paced a ditch into our living room floor the day we waited to find out if she was terminal or not. When she ran a high fever and I had to take her to the E.R., all I could do was cry through her intake. There’s no way to explain to someone the pain of watching someone you love suffer. The prospect of losing them is unfathomable, even after it actually happens. Although I am sure that my friend is going to be just fine and that he and his wife are going to get through this stronger on the other side, I know the toll it can take. I bless them with courage, strength, G-d’s protection, and a refuah shleima (full and speedy recovery) for my friend. They should both take solace in the fact that their friends here love them.

I’ve heard it said in meetings that our painful experiences serve us to help others once we have passed through them. If this is so, I hope that everything I’ve been through will be able to help others now and in the future.

Yonah has just arrived, ready for a cuddle. Back on Mom duty…