EULOGY FOR MY EEMA
There was no one quite like my mother, my Eema. I think everyone thinks that about their parents, but I think in my case it’s true.
My mother was born in 1946 in post-war Poland with her twin brother Yoram. Yoram did everything he could to be here today, but COVID has robbed him of that right, as it has robbed us all of so much.
I always found my mother’s story remarkable. A Jew, born in Poland the year after WWII ended. It seemed so inconsistent with the history I had learned and captures the phrase my mother was fond of saying: “It is not so simple.” My mother was far from simple, and nothing was ever simple for my mother – her life was spent grappling with the complexities of life, both big and small.
After spending her youth in post-war Poland, she and her family were expelled from Poland for being Jewish, and she found herself at 11 years old starting a new life with her family in Israel. I think this move, followed by another to Canada, and then another to the United States, led her to feel like an outsider and identify with those who felt the same – the weak, the lonely, the marginalized, the voiceless, the oppressed. No matter the success and accolades she achieved, I don’t believe she ever felt she was an insider. This is a sad part of her reality, but one that shaped her and everything she did. It drove her, and resulted in her prolific contributions to academia despite her relatively late start.
She was giving and devoted. If you were her friend, she would give you everything she had without a second thought even when she did not have much. She also was not shy in expressing herself, and relationships with her could be difficult. She could not lie, to others or herself. If she disagreed with you, you knew it – and the sentiment could be conveyed harshly. It was also very hard to change her mind. If she did not like you or respect you, I’m pretty sure you knew it too.
I saw how she cared about her parents. It was a devotion born out of the wreckage of the Holocaust. One that led her to bring Shelly and me to Israel for 5 weeks every summer so she and we could be with her parents. They would often argue – heated, intense arguments in Polish, so I never knew the matter in dispute. I was always surprised to hear when I would ask that the arguments were nothing to worry about and no one was upset with anyone.
Their love and devotion ran deep. In fact, during the First Gulf War while Scuds were raining down on Israel and we were safe in Toronto, my mother could not stand to be away from her parents. So she went to be with them, and huddled with them wearing gas masks in sealed rooms – better to be there with them under the threat of a missile attack, than be safe thousands of miles away but unable to be with them and help them.
As an aside, decades later the story would repeat, only this time in reverse as my mother was the one who dictated the narrative. She was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in September. By the time she was diagnosed, she was already in stage 4. Because she was living alone, and because she was not comfortable with relying on those beyond her children, and because we could not stand to be away from her, Shelly and I began traveling to be with her during her chemotherapy treatments – donning a different kind of mask and risking a different type of danger to be with her. I do not for a moment equate her selflessness in 1991 with our actions – what she did was far riskier and dangerous and we did not feel we were putting ourselves at serious risk. The truth is, she only permitted it when told by one of her nurses it would be safe if we took precautions. Until then, in her mind, our visits were impossible. But our trips ended suddenly in November, when COVID-19 spiked. My mother instructed Shelly and me we were not to visit any longer – not because she was worried that we would get her sick, but rather because she could not stomach the idea – no matter how much our presence meant to her – of her getting us sick. And that was that, until January when her condition deteriorated and her caring oncologist, who knew what was coming, asked during a video consult if we were coming to visit my mother as she began a new treatment. After she was grilled by my mother, and assured my mother we could travel relatively safely, my mother lifted her travel ban and Shelly and I got some additional precious days with her prior to her passing.
Back to my mother’s relationship with her parents. Not only did she worry about them, but they also worried about her well-being. After her divorce, they gave her some diamond jewelry so she would have some resources if needed in an emergency. I never saw her wear the jewelry, or even knew it existed until I told my mother I wanted to marry Sara. A poor law school student, she offered me the diamonds and we took them to Goodman’s jewelers in Madison to have them turned into an engagement ring. I remember how moved my mother was when she learned how the diamonds appraised, knowing the sacrifice her parents had made for her.
My mother was a single mother, primarily raising me and my sister. But even so, she was relentless in her goal of pursuing her PhD and a career in academia. She seemingly worked non-stop – nights, weekends, holidays – breaking only to tend to my sister and my needs. No matter how busy she was, juggling jobs and her thesis, she would engage in whatever came up in our lives. When I got some poor grades in a sixth-grade science class, she came to school in the middle of the day to meet with my teacher and me to get to the bottom of the issue – turns out I didn’t read the questions completely. When I made an offhand remark about some anti-Semitic comments some kids made at school, my mother jumped and took the matter up with the school – without my asking or even wanting her to do so. Let’s just say, she got the school’s attention.
My mother earned her PhD, and eventually her dream job at the University of Wisconsin, where she taught and conducted research for close to thirty years. Over that period, she published numerous books and earned virtually every faculty award bestowed by the University for which she was eligible. Over the past few days I have heard over and over people describe her as brilliant. It’s hard to argue with that conclusion, although she did not see it that way. She would confide in me her doubts and insecurities about her abilities and accomplishments, which seemed absurd to me given what she had done.
But perhaps that is why, despite the depth of her intellect, she was not inaccessible to her students or her peers. Unlike some professors who view teaching as a necessary burden that comes with tenure, she enjoyed teaching and was devoted to it and her students. Despite her illness, she taught until the very end. And when she realized her body would no longer permit her to do what she loved, she was consumed – not with sadness over her own plight – but with guilt over what canceling her courses would mean for her students. She passed less than a week later.
My mother’s accomplishments and intellect are apparent to all who knew her. Her dedication to her work and teaching are as well. But what I really want to share with you today and what is truly amazing about my mother was her ability to connect with people. This has become vividly apparent to me in the lead up to and in the wake of her passing, as I came into contact with those whose lives she touched.
See, while my mother was not what you would consider a social person, and while her background and biography differed from all with whom she interacted, she was able to connect with people in deep and meaningful ways.
Her office may have been way up in the Van Hise office tower, but she did not live in an ivory tower. She was a human, who was keenly aware of the human condition and interested in the lives of others. It did not matter if you shared her beliefs, or worked in a similar field. She saw you, and if you were willing, would connect with you. Maintenance people, dry cleaners, pharmacists, IT professionals, hairdressers, tax preparers, investment advisors, students, colleagues. I would speak with them, and when they heard about either my mom’s illness or of her passing, they were deeply affected, and shared their appreciation of her with me in completely unsolicited and unexpected ways.
And you could tell, they meant it and that she meant something special to them. She sawthem, listened to them, understood them and their troubles, offered them something they were seeking, all while remaining intensely private and seeking nothing in return. The benefit to her was making a difference in someone’s life, and perhaps a small respite from her non-stop work.
She can no longer have those moments. Cancer deprived us of more time with her. But, in keeping with my mother’s saying that “it’s not so simple,” it also blessed us with more time with her. We knew what was coming and got the chance to spend time with her in her final months and weeks we otherwise would not have due to COVID. And I was able to – I hope – provide her some comfort in her final hours and as difficult as it was, I am eternally grateful that she did not die alone.
And while I am saddened by what COVID has done to our world and what we have lost as a result, it allowed her to teach remotely and reach the goal she set when diagnosed – to finish teaching the Fall semester. Although my mother’s “it’s not so simple” admonition generally referred to something negative, I have found the adage has led me to also recognize sometimes the complexity in life includes silver linings.
At this point I fear I have violated one of my mother’s cardinal rules: it is better too short than too long. And so with that, I say goodbye. Eema, you may have been small in physical stature, but you were a giant in so many ways. Your memory is a blessing to me, our family, and the people near and far whose lives you touched and changed for the better. I hope you have found your elusive peace.
