FORGIVENESS

A dear friend of my husband and mine died suddenly of a heart attack at age 68. One minute he was dancing the funky chicken at a niece's wedding; the next, he was on the floor, moaning in pain. Henry (not his real name) had been my husband's college roommate and a dear friend ever since. They shared a love of making art, of travel adventures, and a bond of unshakeable friendship. Unshakeable, that is, until two years before Henry's death when, upset about something to do with his terminally ill brother, he severed all communication. Several attempts at reconnecting - letters, a birthday card, emails - failed. Henry had made up his mind. He wanted nothing to do with my husband or me.

For months Henry haunted us. We searched our memories for what might have sent him over the edge. But it was all a series of guesses; we didn't have a clue. We'd been declared dead and gone without any cause of death. In some ways, the not knowing catapulted me back to the suicide death of my brother. Sure, there were some plausible reasons - at least, in my brother's mind - to take his life: his fragile psyche, the reality of life without hard drugs, a complete lack of direction. But my family and I would never know for sure. And the not knowing, as much as his death, plagued me for years. Only when I'd pursued every lead and come to a dead end every time - when I'd talked to young people who had attempted suicide and lived, to family members and friends of those who weren't so lucky, to experts of every stripe - did I finally accept the not knowing, absolve myself of guilt, move beyond the anger, and the palpable pain.

Henry's wife, (I'll call her Sarah) also a dear friend for over 45 years, is a therapist. She's also an Orthodox Jew whose parents disowned her when she announced that she and Henry, then a lapsed Catholic, were getting married. As far as her parents were concerned, their daughter was dead and buried. The hurt was too much to bear. Sarah had a nervous breakdown. Only when Henry promised to convert to Orthodox Judaism did the parents welcome their back-from-the-dead daughter into their lives again.

Given that history, one would think that Sarah would remember the pain of being banished and would do all in her power to convince Henry that he needed to at least communicate with us and tell his side of the story. That never happened. So, when the phone rang early on a Sunday morning with Henry's sister on the other end telling us that he had died, I burst into tears for him, for his wife, and for us - the dear friend who would now never be able to restore the friendship.

"You're the first people we've called," his sister said.

"But . . we haven't spoken to Henry in two years."

"That doesn't matter. We want you here at the memorial service this afternoon." I hesitated. Did this mean that Sarah had agreed? Or was Henry's sister acting on her own?

"We'll be there."

We arrived at the funeral home later that day and waited for Sarah. She darted into the private room for family only, talking on the phone I was told to her son back in Phoenix who was saddled with making all of the funeral and burial arrangements. When I saw her come out of the room and head toward the women's restroom, I followed her.

"I'm so sorry," I said, wrapping my arms around her. She stiffened.

"How are you doing?"

"What do you expect?"

I began to feel very uncomfortable. "Is there anything we can do?" I offered.

Sarah stared at me, her eyes not filled with tears but with rage. "It's too late."

She turned and walked away.

I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to grab my husband and leave. I hadn't come for abuse but for some kind of a start toward reconciliation or at least some understanding as to what had gone so wrong between us. That was not to be. Sarah, even in her grief, refused to reach out to me for support. She'd made a conscious decision not to open the door, even a tiny bit.

And I made the decision to remember the good times we had shared and to move on.

"Tommy, Can You Hear Me?"

The refrain from The Who's infamous rock opera keeps running through my brain, "Tommy, can you hear me?" Right now, the answer is a resounding "No!" for both Tommy and for me. And when you feel you're not being heard - not at home, not at work, not with family and friends - the feelings range from agitation to anger, from frustration to fear. When did this all begin?

There we are my dying mother, my baby sister, and I. My mother lies in the recently-delivered hospital bed, dozing off and on. My sister, eyes closed, lies in the "old" bed curled up into my mother's body. I sit in an uncomfortable chair off to the side, feeling like a stranger in their midst. I want to scream, "Let me in!" but no one is listening.

For almost two months my sister has tended to my mother, surrounded by hospice care workers and a steady stream of friends. This is her turf. It was, after all, her suggestion that my parents buy the little house in Ohio. Florida was just too far away.

I dutifully follow my sister's rules: emotions checked at the front door, absolute silence in my mother's room. I'm suffocating. But I hold my tongue. I have no right to question. I want to scream, but no one is listening.

My mother died with my sister by her side. I was tending to my father who had landed in intensive care after most likely having had a mini-stroke, falling, hitting his head, and suffering a subdural hematoma.

Even before my father knocked himself senseless, he'd become an angry old man. Looking back, I can't blame him. His wife of sixty-five years was on disconnect, and my sister and her crew had taken over. He had lost control, and no one was listening to him, either. Maybe that's why he decided that there should be no funeral for my mother. It was a decision he thought he could make.

I would have none of it. My mother was a very social person with deep connections to friends and relatives. She would have hated not having had some kind of respectable memorial. But my dad was adamant. "Just tell people to make a contribution in her name," he said.

My sister hadn't attended a funeral since my brother died 30 years before. She sided with my dad. And my surviving brother didn't seem to care one way or the other. So, there I was alone. The only ones who seemed to hear me were my husband and son. And they were hundreds of miles away.

After two days of pleading my case, my family relented: We would have a funeral, but it would be a quiet gravesite affair. And we would have a second funeral just weeks after the first, laying my dad to rest just inches away from my mother.

The snow keeps falling on this the first day of March. I am weary of winter's cold shoulder. Mother Nature ignores my yearning for spring and a new beginning. I want to shake Her until She hears me.