Chana Bat Chaya
On Thursday night, March 4, 2004 , which was the end of the fast
of Esther in the Jewish calendar, our dear mother, wife, and daughter,
Anita Stern - Chana Bat Chaya - returned her precious soul to her
creator. Because my mother's true love in life was writing, we
decided to write a tribute of her amazing life, detailing the amazing
things we saw in her life since she was diagnosed with advanced
lung cancer in October of 2002.
Tsafrir Stern - Monday, March 8, 2004
The Diagnosis
After months of difficulty speaking and swallowing, my Mother
was given the shattering news - she was sick with lung cancer,
despite never having smoked or been around any chemicals known
to cause the disease. My father almost collapsed at the doctor's
office upon hearing the news - they both knew that this would be
a difficult diagnosis to overcome. I shall never forget my mother's
hoarse voice from her cell phone on the way home from the doctor: "The
MRI confirmed I have lung cancer, and it has spread all over my
body," she said, having learned the cancer was already in
parts of her brain when the MRI was taken. "It's all over
and I'm dying," she said in a panic. I tried to control myself
and to calm my mother down as I myself started hyperventilating.
I'm usually calm in helping others grasp difficult news, but this
time I myself needed help from my wife to remain calm.
The Procedures
What followed was 16 months of emotional and physical
upheaval that would have destroyed the desire for life to almost
anyone - anyone but my mother, that is. An eternal optimist, she
never backed off her faith, never complained of any pain, and never
asked for anything from anyone. Up until three weeks before her
death, she was hard at work, with almost no days off to care for
herself. The three rounds of chemo and doctor's visits were scheduled
for late afternoons and evenings. Her bravery was an inspiration
to many others. When Mr. and Mrs. Liggett, her friends from the
Synagogue, were given a "tour" of the Cedar Sinai Cancer Center
after the wife's cancer diagnosis, they saw my mother at work correcting
papers. "Her work during procedures - cell phone in one hand
and writing in the other while undergoing heavy chemotherapy -
was an inspiration that this disease could be conquered," was
his comment to us at the funeral.
The cancer worked hard and fast on my mother's
body. It started in the lungs, spread three times to the brain,
reached two parts of the spinal cord, ate up a hipbone, and eventually
took over the liver, which was the final blow to my mother's frail
health. Nevertheless, our entire family had a difficult time keeping
up with her fast pace, which did not slow until the very end. Her
mind wanted to keep living at the blazing speed she lived her whole
life, but her body just couldn't follow through; we were left trying
to bridge the gap. My father used to take her shopping, where she
would quickly glide through the aisles in the wheelchair, giving
instructions on what to buy. "I can't keep up", said
my father.
Nothing stopped my mother. She went through whole brain radiation
and immediately returned to school. She wasn't allowed to drive
any more, so my father - and intermittently her sons - drove her
to work every day. She went through hip surgery and again returned
to work upon being sent home. She had radiation on her back and
was given a heavy cast to prevent paralysis, and she kept on teaching
and writing.
Her Spiritual Growth
My mother eagerly looked forward to
the publication of her third book. The first two textbooks for
English as a Second Language were a smashing success, and she devoted
the last three years of her life to the third book. "I hope
I live to see this book published," she said when the disease's
destructive energy was at its peak. She did: The book was published
in January, only weeks before her death.
One of the teachers in my mother's school saw her
dedication, and recommended Fox Broadcasting film her for a day
for a news segment. The news editor readily agreed, and they spent
the day filming her energy despite all she was going through. The
segment was aptly called "The Unstoppable Teacher," and
my mother was very proud of the segment, sending copies to all
her friends and relatives. "This is what my grandchildren
will remember of me," she remarked.
Anyone who knew my mother
always knew her to be a very giving person. She was always there
to help anyone in need, and was always busy giving to charity.
When the ramifications of the disease sunk in, she asked my wife,
Hila, what she should do to buy extra favor in God's eyes. "I don't
want to push you to do anything you don't want to," she said, "but
what can you offer?" was
her response. "Well, since you will probably lose your hair
to all the treatments, and anyhow will need to cover your hair,
why not start covering your hair permanently according to Jewish
tradition?" She agreed, and covered her hair once the procedures
caused her hair to fall out. During the final few months of her life, we were all surprised
to see how much more religious she had become. Friends of my wife
testified that she tried to convince them to remove their children
from public schools and send them to private Jewish schools. After
a career as a public school teacher, this was quite a change of
heart. But she was always brave enough to admit to the truth -
even if it contradicted her past assumptions. As the disease progressed,
she viewed Jewish education as the only means to ending the rampant
assimilation in 21 st century America .
The Final Blow
In early January, she was feeling
pressure on her stomach, and was unable to eat without vomiting.
I was away with my wife and children at a friend's house in New
Jersey on a late Saturday evening when we got the disturbing phone
call from our mother: "The
MRI showed the cancer was now in the liver. My chances to fight
the latest news are horrible," she said in a barely audible
pant.
"We need to fly out immediately in order to strengthen her
resolve," was Hila's response. Thirty minutes later we were
booked on a flight from New York to Los Angeles . My four-year-old
daughter heard us speaking about the flight the next evening, and
told her "Bubby" that she was coming to see her tomorrow. "Children's
imagination," thought my mother. When we knocked on the door
to their house Monday afternoon, my father was shocked: "You
must be kidding!" he said. He called my mother at work and
told her "You won't believe who's here!" said my father. "I
guess Chaya Batya knew what she was saying all along," said
my mother. The principal of her school told her to spend the three
days with us, and not worry about the time off. Suddenly my mother's
energy was back. She took all of us to a beautiful day at the Long
Beach Aquarium, and everyone forgot about the cancer for a few
days. It was the old "mom" we always knew.
The Last Few Weeks At the Hospital
The Doctors hoped to operate on the
liver, but needed to wean her off of the blood thinners she was
on to proceed. The operation was called for mid February, but was
postponed a number of times for different complications. When she
was finally admitted to the hospital on February 20th, she was
already too sick for the operation. Her breathing was very heavy,
and she could barely breathe. "They
still can't do the operation," were the words my father used. "I'm
afraid that at this point, it might simply be impossible to have
the operation. We could be at the end of the road here. Be prepared
for the worst." The news was too difficult to hear. We kept
praying as we always did; this time we prayed harder, asking for
a miracle.
The daily updates were difficult to swallow, as
her condition deteriorated faster and faster. Finally my father's
phone calls became hourly. One of the conversations mentioned that
she would be "returning to spend her last few days at home as a hospice".
By now, the operation was out of the question, and her breathing
was so heavy we could barely hear her over the phone. We were hoping
she would make it out of the hospital while still alive.
When the doctor's finally gave up on the medicine,
my father asked they speak to her directly. To crush her optimism
was a pain too difficult to overcome for a faithful spouse of 35
years. When the doctor's gave her the unfortunate news, she already
lost her strength to speak. She wrote on the pad: "Doctor, is there anything
you can do for me?" Dr. Wallin, her Oncologist and an Orthodox
Jew, responded, "I'm afraid not. I've done everything I could.
Now it's up to God." To which my mother responded, "I
guess God wants me now. Last year I sent you a gift for the holiday
of Purim. It looks like this year I won't be around." The
doctor shed a tear and walked out of the room heartbroken. My mother's
personality was still as up-front as ever.
Despite all the negativity, my mother still believed
she could win the disease. On Friday, February 27th, she told my
father to "Tell
Tsafi to fly with his family and in-laws next Thursday evening." We
did as we were told. We did a quick "Upsherin" on my
son, the third birthday party for boys when they get their traditional
haircut, in order for my mother to see her grandson looking more
like a boy than a girl. It was a short relief of joy from the hourly
phone calls of pain. All the guests knew the circumstances. There
was the possibility of my mother dying during the party, and I
would take off for the airport immediately.
The End of the Journey
On Monday, I told co-workers that my mother's diagnosis looked
bleak, and that I would likely need to fly out on Thursday evening.
On Monday morning, my mother's Rabbi and lung specialist saw her.
They both told my father the same thing - she was now down to days,
not weeks, and the family in New York should fly out immediately
if they wished to see her alive. My wife, a true woman of valor,
changed our flights, and with the help of her mother and close
friends, packed our belongings in under three hours. I rushed home
to help and prepared to leave. My mother-in-law was very close
to my mother, and she decided to fly with us.
The following morning in Los Angeles , as they
tried to release my mother home once again, my father called me
to inform me that I should be ready to rush to the hospital. "Her condition
has deteriorated very fast, and she might be almost at the end
of the line," he informed me. My heart sank, but alas, we
had some more time. When the ambulance brought my mother home that
afternoon, she was panting for air and she looked very worried.
My mother-in-law, brother, grandmother, wife, and faithful maid
broke down in shambles when they saw my mother. It was a difficult
sight to bear. She was emaciated from lack of eating for weeks
and weeks on end. She carried heavy loads of water in her legs
and arms, and she was breathing at about triple the usual rate.
I spent about two minutes at her bed before I left to unload a
barrage of tears and pain out of sight. I never experienced such
painful shock in my life. The mind simply could not comprehend
that such deterioration sapped all her energy since the last time
we were together five weeks prior.
My family stayed at a hotel to minimize the shock to the children.
When we realized the severity of her situation, we arranged for
my mother-in-law to return home with the children the next afternoon,
so they wouldn't have to see the pain following the death. The
highlight of my mother's visit with the grandchildren was the light
in her eyes when my son walked into the room. She couldn't get
over how different he looked with short hair. He brought true Nachas (Yiddish
for joy ) to my mother. He asked about her "boo-boo" and
what could be done to help her. Her condition looked reasonable
to him, and he told her to eat in order to regain her strength.
Saying Goodbye
When we took the children with my mother-in-law to the airport,
we knew our time was short. When we returned home, she sat up eating,
and seemed to have regained her strength. I looked at my wife with
concern, as we both knew this was the final burst of energy before
the end came. She asked for everyone to gather around her, including
my wife, grandmother, my father and myself. She then asked for
my brother to leave his work, something she never did before. She
said she was dying, and we followed her directions. We knew the
clock was ticking; my mother was gasping for air. She told everyone
she loved them, and we responded likewise with true warmth. This
was a fitting goodbye for a woman to whom family was always a top
priority. We called the Rabbi to say Viddui (the confession
of a Jew before he departs this world) . When the Rabbi came,
he pulled my father and myself aside, and said she still has hope
for life; he implored that we could not pull the rug from under
her feet at this moment. He said that we should wait for her to
be unconscious, and then say it on her behalf. Instead, he gave
her a prayer and told her to keep up her amazing strength. My mother
asked for a clock, apparently to see the time she was leaving us.
She asked us when Purim (the holiday celebrating the Jewish
nation overcoming its enemies) was being celebrated.
A few hours later, she was unconscious, but we didn't know it.
She slept right through the night, and the next morning a doctor
from the hospice let us know she was now down to hours, not days.
He told us that her conversation with us the previous afternoon
was her way of saying goodbye. We all spent the following nervous
hours at her bedside, seeing the value of time, knowing it wouldn't
be long before the breathing would stop. My grandmother stayed
there almost the entire day. For her this goodbye was even more
difficult: Her Daughter was dearer to her than anything else in
this world.
The Rabbi returned in the afternoon, this time to say the Viddui
prayer. He looked at my mother and told her he was there for the
prayer. Amazingly, despite her state of being in a coma, she opened
one eye, and didn't blink or close it for the whole confession!
This was my confirmation that people hear and comprehend when in
a coma. My wife reminded me we should put her hat on. It was removed
for health reasons, but she always wanted it on, especially when
hearing prayers. We put on her hat and sat there trembling as we
knew the minutes were ticking away, too fast for us to appreciate
them.
In the early evening, her breathing slowed. Her caretaker Gloria
told us we were now very close, and to expect her to die during
the night. At about 8:39 PM on Thursday evening, we heard a shriek
come from her room. We ran over to see what had happened. Her caretaker
told us she felt her soul leave, and we looked at her emaciated
body that had stopped breathing. The sensation was anti-climactic
and peaceful, now that the breathing difficulties ended. My brother
and I tearfully recited the Shema blessing in which Jews acknowledge
the supremacy of the God above us. I asked my mother to give us
strength to overcome this tragedy. My grandmother then came in
and asked to kiss her daughter one last time. It was a painful
moment for everyone.
Twenty minutes later the Rabbi was at the door
to help with all the arrangements. I followed the Rabbi's instructions
to close the eyes and mouth, and place the hands facing up in an
open position. "When
a baby is born, he enters this world tightfisted, thinking he will
take it all. When he dies, the hands are left open - we take nothing
with us but our good name."
The Funeral
The drive to the cemetery in Simi Valley was very surreal. Everyone
was sad but contained. When the procession started, we tearfully
cut our garments in the Jewish tradition. The casket was brought
to the burial plot, and the Rabbi delivered a beautiful speech
highlighting the achievements and love that my mother accomplished
in her life. My father then spoke, more beautifully than I ever
heard him speak before. He spoke of the great years they had together.
He jokingly admitted that he always knew that his marriage to my
mother was a two-for-one deal with his mother-in-law, and then
said that he vowed to take care of his wife's mother - my grandmother
- as he had promised my mother. I looked at my father and my family,
and I was very proud. I realized his dignity in assuaging my grandmother's
fears and mother's fears as he shed a tear. Now that my mother
was gone, I felt much closer to my remaining family members.
I then proceeded to eulogize my mother, and spoke
of how God had rewarded her measure for measure. When my grandmother
in Israel had a stroke, my mother convinced my father to fly to
see her before it was too late. Likewise, she was rewarded with
seeing her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren before she died.
I then spoke of how she died in the same way that she lived. Instead
of mourning for a seven day period, the mourning period was only
2 days: She was buried Friday afternoon, there was no mourning
on the Sabbath, and Sunday and Monday was Purim, when mourning
was prohibited. So we only mourn for 2 days. This was her life
- she never asked for anything or caused anyone to be inconvenienced.
I asked her to give us strength. We then proceeded to fill the
grave with dirt and pray the "Kaddish" prayers over the
dead.
Very fittingly, after the grave was filled, the
Rabbi proceeded to sing to my mother, with everyone's help, the "Eishes Chayil" song
that captures the essence of a "Woman of Valor." What
was most touching to me was that my mother participated in singing
this song to my wife at our wedding, feeling she was the daughter
she never had. Now the tables were turned, and my wife was singing
it to her. What goes around comes around.
Still With Us
Indeed, my mother's presence is still
felt after she is gone. At the funeral, the director asked us what
we wanted to do with the hat that still remained on her when they
took her away. Did we want her to be buried with the hat by her
side, or did we want to take the hat home? My father told the director
to bury my mother with the hat on. Her living wish became her dying
wish.
We returned home right before the Sabbath, and rushed to shower
and prepare for Synagogue. We made it to the Synagogue one minute
before prayers started. I keep thinking my mother is still here,
because the pace of life she lived: So full, without wasting a
minute. This was still felt after she left us. My grandmother then
said she felt her daughter wanted her to continue the legacy of
covering her hair, and continued to do so herself.
On Purim, we decided to send the very saddened oncologist the
gift that we knew my mother wanted him to receive. It was a Mishloach
Manot, a gift Jews give one another every Purim, meant to solidify
a friendship. My mother's legacy is still felt almost a week after
her passing.
We are all very hurt from losing a daughter, mother, and wife
that was so special; may she continue to give us strength from
far above. We will never forget you Mom.
In loving memory from everyone.
Note: Anita's legacy lives on in a web site that was opened in
her memory as a writer. It has her biography and published books
with a discussion section. The website is at www.anitastern.net. |
