Sunday, November 16, 2014

My Season of Cardiac Care

Two nights before Yom Kippur, I went home alone from the hospital to our big old house, trying not to notice how empty it felt. The charming place that my husband, Bob, and I bought this year to rehab and re-sell suddenly felt like a used trebuchet from the Renaissance Faire that would need to be unloaded on Craig's List.

That evening, Bob was getting ready for heart surgery.

His condition, and the urgency for intervention, surprised both of us. For the next few days, on my way to the intensive care unit, I drove past my synagogue without an ounce of mental, physical or spiritual energy to stop at the one place that had always given me all three.

The surgery went well, and when Bob was recovering, I realized that at that moment we were living through the perspective-taking about life and death that's built into the ritual and liturgy of the High Holidays. (Watch for my blog post next year on how the Unetanah Tokef will never be the same for me.)

Fast forward to good news. Life is returning to normal. He has a couple more months before he'll be ready to tackle big home improvement projects or move the 50 boxes of books that are still in the garage. That will come back in time. I have resumed my typical work schedule of either talking on the phone all day or traveling. We throw a kiss or send a text message when either of us leaves the house. We're as present as we can be for other family members who are going through some difficult times, too. We're looking ahead to our son's wedding next year, eagerly waiting for photos and details about the date and site. Ok, that might just be me who's eagerly waiting. Also normal.

Here's what happened instantly and hasn't stopped: We smile every day because we will have more days together.

Here's what took awhile to notice: The help we needed from our synagogue community didn't come from an organized committee. And I'm grateful for that.

Let me explain.

My first call to inform people that Bob was in the hospital, after I activated our family network, was to the office at my synagogue. I couldn't say at the time why that was so important to me; we're all comforted by different connections. (Bob's first call was to our painter to cancel their punch list review.)

Almost immediately, Bob got a call from our rabbi. There was no deep discussion about life and death - I think Bob joked about the lengths he'd go to to get out of Yom Kippur services. But those first few days unloaded an avalanche of medical information, decisions, and pain, and our rabbi provided a familiar non-anxious presence that comes from a relationship built over decades. A chat, even about Yom Kippur sermons, was a welcomed gift of normal at an abnormal time.

For the first few weeks, our family and friends regularly visited or checked in. Bob's closest buddies and our sons were always a phone call away to shop and do errands, or stay with him while I went out. I knew my support network, asked for help when I needed it, and got it.

Synagogues expend a lot of energy organizing a corps of chesed volunteers, people who kindly cook or do errands for community members going through medical crises or loss. They are critical lifelines for many people. I'm glad to say we didn't need this. It's because our corps of chesed volunteers are continually present in our lives - friends we collected through years of synagogue membership, sharing Shabbat and holiday dinners together, celebrating weddings, and supporting each other after the deaths of our parents. There was nothing to activate; our network is always there.

Bob and I have belonged to four kehillot in the last 32 years, and these sacred communities have enriched our lives with relationships. Our children went to their schools, and their friends' parents became our friends. When our children grew up, we formed a circle of friends with whom to continue to do Jewish things... or not. Our synagogue office is one of the first places I call because I'm confident that some gesture that brings a moment of peace or comfort will come from it.

I have spent a lot of time in my career teaching leaders of synagogues how to "create community," and here's what my season of cardiac care taught me:  No single synagogue committee, on its own, creates a support network. It's built over time by the whole community, piece by piece, person to person - during high moments of transition and predictable daily, weekly or yearly rituals.

Our sacred communities anchor us with a gathering place, a commitment to something beyond ourselves, and a calendar that, if we follow along, opens up the potential for building a human network, one that can carry us through the worst, and best, of what life brings us.