In the middle of a plate of enchiladas and salad, the phone rings. I sigh — it’s been days since I’ve had the time or appetite to enjoy a meal. My husband, Tom, is busy at the kitchen counter, so I reach for the phone, and my brother says, “They’re both gone.” It’s 2 p.m. on Dec. 18, 1994, and with those three words, I am orphaned.
My father had taken care of all final arrangements, leaving detailed instructions on where to go and who to contact. While not highly religious, my parents wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and so my brother, husband and I met with the congregation rabbi the day following the deaths, unaware that suicide was considered taboo in the Jewish religion. As such, my parents could not rest in hallowed burial grounds, something the rabbi made us well aware of moments after we were seated.
Soon that desire to cocoon myself in others’ misery morphed into something else: fear. Fear of today. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of anything that might go wrong. If my husband was more than 10 minutes late getting home from work, I imagined he had been in an accident. If our cat had a slight cough, I was convinced it was congestive heart failure. If my brother said he was feeling blue, I worried he would go down the same path our parents did.Oddly enough, I was the only person I didn’t fret over.
And each day, before I leave for work, I hold a little fashion show in front of the mirror that used to hang in my parents’ bedroom. My taste in clothing is similar to my mother’s, and I view this daily exercise as an opportunity to connect with the woman who — for all I know — may be gazing back at me through the looking glass.
The event that transpired on that cold, clear early winter day in 1994 has changed my life in so many ways — some for the good, others for the not so good.
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