I open my eyes from sleep. On the floor across the room there is a long, white, blurry bundle. I blink my eyes, not sure what to make of it. Perhaps it is a dense patch of fog. Then it begins moving toward me. It gets closer and closer. I want to run, but I don’t. I can’t. Just before it reaches me, I wake up in a cold sweat. For fifty years, I have had this recurring nightmare in bits and pieces. I was convinced that it symbolized death crawling toward me. But one night, not long ago, the dream came to me as a vivid, coherent whole. I could see that the white mass actually was in the shape of a mummy, like a body enveloped in sheets. I awakened more petrified than ever. Yet after wrestling with the significance of this nightmare for several days, the fear dissipated. I understood for the first time that the bundle, although wrapped in a white shroud, was not death. It was my mother, trying to connect with me.
By looking at life as a series of lessons to be learned, I forced myself to hang on to a glimmer of hope, even during the darkest moments. I learned from the bad times, trusting that there would be better times ahead. Success is relative. I am proud that I have run a business, raised caring, productive children, and as a loving and dedicated wife helped my husband, Frankie, overcome a catastrophic illness. Feeling joy, being strong, becoming the person I might have been had the war not intervened—that, I decided, would be the best revenge. And an important lesson to pass on to my children, grandchildren, and future generations.
There is no way to cast much of the first half of my life in a positive light. No way for me to wrap it up in a neat bow or to make sense of events that were simply insane. I have faith that whatever happened, happened for some reason, although that reason remains unfathomable. The other day, as I found myself staring at my one surviving baby picture, I felt closer to my past than ever before. I remembered having been an outgoing and sensitive young child, much like my granddaughter, Mikaela. She has a great capacity for joy, but she gets hurt easily, too. Every day I accept more of myself, including that sad, lonely child I became soon after that baby picture was taken. That’s why I wanted to tell my story. So people can see that the spirit can be rekindled even after terrible loss.
I never found any shortcuts to healing myself. I had to confront each and every excruciatingly painful episode. I still remember the anger I used to feel at relatives who teased me or didn’t comfort me, the way my blood would boil. And what is boiling blood? The high blood pressure I have today. I struggled, working hard to put the pieces of my life together, and in some instances, to re-create parts that were lost entirely. I kept saying to myself, “Don’t let go of your dreams. Build on every bit of inspiration.”
There are days when I still hear the hurt, deprived little Ruchaleh talking to me. I feel the old ache in my heart, and anger in the pit of my stomach. From deep down in my soul, I become that frightened, neglected, and disappointed child, with no comfort or security. No adult to intervene long enough to say, “This is wrong. This is a child who needs protection.” Or at least an explanation. I hear that child inside of me asking, Why? Why is this happening to me? Why am I hiding with a bunch of helpless people who lack the strength to take care of their own children? I think that perhaps there were no answers to those questions. And then I force myself to become the mother of that child who felt abandoned at an age when kids are scared of their own shadows.
With Leslie, I am in awe. I am thrilled that her life has been rich with promises fulfilled, goals brought to fruition, and people cheering her on. I celebrate her inclusive, loving nature, her leadership abilities, and all her many accomplishments. But occasionally, when I’m in a weak moment, I feel stuck being a spectator in her life. At these times, the voids within me ache, and sometimes a smidgen of resentment emerges.
My daughter’s success and the differences in our lives make me aware that I never achieved many of my dreams. In high school, I was only able to survive, not to prosper. Before I began a family I wish I had been able to attend a university, to discover more of my talents, to attain some individual success, and to bond with people more similar to the person who I might have become. I would also like to have found the energy, at some point along the way, to make more changes in the world, perhaps helping children. It wouldn’t surprise me if someday I overcame these doubting times altogether, since I’m constantly striving to be a better person. In the meantime I remind myself that Leslie is a part of my own self, and once again my heart swells with pride. I experience that deep, binding love that makes me glow inside.
With my seven grandchildren I feel I have won the lottery. Each one has helped me to grow healthier, to put my life in focus. The wonder of love is so amazing. One of my favorite sayings is, “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” For me, I find the validation that I have risen above my past in the way my grandchildren are developing into healthy, loving, and thriving people. I struggle to be the grandmother I would have wanted and to give to my grandchildren the gift of myself, and for the most part I succeed. I have gotten so much love from them. I keep learning and striving for additional wisdom to impart to them. I hope that someday each one of them will remember me with a great deal of love. If they didn’t like something I did or some of my admonitions, hopefully they realize that it’s because I was concerned about them, perhaps too much so. Mostly, I want them to remember that I loved them.
My path seems less cluttered these days. I have more peaceful moments. I’ve come to feel freer and more self-confident. I was blessed with the wit and curiosity to make the most of my experiences, and enough love and compassion to do some good for other people. Although I don’t spend a lot of time in synagogue, I have always been spiritual. I believe we are all made in the image of God—with a light side and a dark side. Accepting these two sides of myself has helped me to keep my life intact.
I have also come to believe that God meant for me to survive so that I could enjoy a good and full life. I still have more to accomplish. I still talk to God all the time. In fact, I still say good night the way I was taught by my father when I was two years old. Kissing one of the mezuzahs in the house, I say this prayer three times—Shaddai shomreini matzilani michol raim. The prayer may not be precise because I never saw the words in writing. It’s the way I remember hearing it as a very young girl, when I had a peaceful home, the highest expectations, and a mother and father who adored me. In its essence, it’s a prayer to God to protect me from all harm.