Flu Is Not A Bad Cold

Today a beautiful young woman of only 40, a mother of  five young children, a talented singer and dancer, was laid to rest after succumbing to complications of influenza. The flu.

Deganit Zarum-Glick (Duggi) grew up in Edgware near us. I knew her older sister and brother. Later I met her cousins from Manchester and I shared a flat in Jerusalem with one of them for four years. Thus cementing my friendship with the whole family.

Deganit's mother, affectionately known as Aunty Gitta, came to my father's funeral. She didn't know any of my family apart from myself and she came on the basis of my connection with her family and our friendship on facebook. I will always remember her kindness. I'm only sorry that I couldn't be there for her and all the family today.

Deganit was perfectly healthy, slim and fit. She had access to among the best medical services in the western world and she was indeed hospitalized. It wasn't her health. It wasn't the medical system. It was the flu.

How many times have we heard colleagues say they have the flu when phoning in sick, only to have them return to work a couple of days later almost better? Friends, this is not the flu.

I had real flu once. I died for a week. Then, because I'm a teacher and felt guilty about missing school, I stupidly went back to work the next week. For the next three months the virus was in my body and I basically dragged myself to work, came home and went to bed exhausted. Every day. On the weekends I slept.

After that experience I never misused the flu word. And I made sure I got the flu shot every year it was available.

This is what a quick google search says about flu: Flu is a contagious respiratory illness caused by influenza viruses that infect the nose, throat, and sometimes the lungs. It can cause mild to severe illness, and at times can lead to death. The best way to prevent flu is by getting a flu vaccine each year.

This year there is a particularly virulent strain. "15 people have died of flu complications, including two minors, in a recent flu outbreak that hit Israel with especially aggressive strains. At least 130 people have been hospitalized in serious condition this winter, compared to 45 last winter." The Health MinistryJan 2, 2020


Since then the number of deaths in Israel has risen to about 20.

We had a busy end of year last year and I didn't get round to going for our shots. By January they had run out. Apparently supplying enough vaccines for 20% of the population is usually enough to fulfill the demand. And they sometimes only advise the very young, old, and vulnerable to get vaccinated. But this year they advised everyone to do it and after a number of deaths, people started to get scared.

I still wasn't too worried. I figured that last year's shots would immunize us from some of it. Not so. The nurse told me today that they're only good for six months.

Yes, we saw the nurse today because although I couldn't make it to the funeral in the north of Israel, I could make it to our local clinic and suddenly it became imperative to get our flu vaccines.

Reader, if you haven't already, please please please go and get a flu vaccine.

This post is dedicated to Deganit Zarum-Glick (Duggi) Z"L and written with love for the Glick, Zarum, and Slifkin families.

After A Horrific Week

I found it very hard to get my head around writing Reasons 2B Cheerful this week, without mentioning all the terrible events that happened. On a personal level it was a good week but on a community level it was horrific. I feel I need to pay my respects to the community first and I'll come back tomorrow with some personal R2BC.

Last Shabbat 11 Jewish worshipers were shot in a Synagogue in Pittsburgh, USA. Jews everywhere are reeling. It could have happened anywhere and we all have friends and family everywhere. One elderly mother buried two if her sons. One victim was a 97 year old holocaust survivor. Synagogues in the US and the UK, which should be open and welcoming places of God, are seriously considering having armed guards on the doors.

On Tuesday we had a lovely, sunny, municipal elections day which was designated to be a public holiday. Many families went on trips to the beaches, the parks, or the Dead Sea. A family of two parents and six children were driving home from a day out when a car coming in the opposite direction tried to overtake on a blind bend. He hit the family head on and their car burst into flames. All eight were burned to death inside the car. No I didn't know this particular family personally but we are all families in a very small country sharing the roads with drivers who gamble with our lives, either by reckless driving or using their phones whilst driving. The whole country was in shock. It could have been any of us.

Yesterday we heard that an 18 month old baby in Jerusalem has died of measles. A disease that was almost eradicated years ago and one that children in Israel are routinely and without charge, vaccinated against. This baby's parents belong to a cult sect of ultra-orthodox Jews whose rabbis have told them not to vaccinate. I don't know the exact reason why not. They are against the State of Israel as an authority as only God can protect us and only the Messiah was supposed to bring about the return to Zion. Something like that. They are against modern technology because it makes knowledge of the outside world available to all their followers. And against science because it keeps proving things they don't believe in. Basically it's a power struggle and one child was sacrificed for it this week.

And today I received frightening photos from the kibbutz where my friends live, the kibbutz that we go to for holidays and festivals sometimes, my happy place.... A balloon carrying a bomb was let off in Gaza and landed on the path right by my friends' houses (I have several friends on that kibbutz). It hit a jeep that burst into flames, and it started a major fire of trees and bushes along the path. What child doesn't run to catch a balloon floating down from the sky? Israeli kids don't. One of these balloon bombs was found as far from Gaza as Jerusalem (1.5 hrs drive in a car) a few weeks ago. I, and all parents here, had to warn our children not to touch balloons in the street.

Here's to a much better week and may you all have a calm and peaceful weekend.

Such Is Life

Sunset over Jerusalem.
The sun doesn't go down, it's the world that keeps on turning.

We live on the third floor of an apartment building. Directly below us on the second floor are a young family who just welcomed their third daughter into the world. And on the first floor, directly below them, are a couple in their late 50s with grown up children and baby grandchildren.

On DD's birthday, as we went downstairs to go to school in the morning, we noticed a big colourful poster on the door of the family on the second floor. WELCOME HOME TO MUMMY AND OUR BABY SISTER! We smiled and said that we must go in and visit next week and take a gift.

We left the building and outside in the parking area we saw a small marquee with the sign 'Sukkat Avelim'. It means 'Mourners' Shelter'. I looked to see where the electric cable from the roof of the marquee went into the building and saw that it was attached via the balcony of the couple on the first floor.

My heart sank as I understood what had happened. Although there were no notices up yet I had met the wife in the supermarket last week and she told me her son was in hospital. Had an elderly grandparent died, they would have not have needed a tent. But when a young man with a family of his own dies, there are more mourners and more friends who come to visit and comfort during the week of shiva.

By the time I got home from school and was rushing out to collect DD and her friends for the birthday supper, the notices were up. I had been right. Michael was was a young family man with four babies - two sets of twins all under four years old.

The funeral had been in the morning and the street around our building was full of tearful friends and family. My neighbour came out of the tent. I hugged her, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," was all I could say. We all assumed he would be ok. He was young, there are babies, he was in the hospital, the hospital makes you better doesn't it?

I popped into their apartment on my way upstairs to say a few words to her husband and then ran up to dump my bag and do a quick change of clothes. On my way back out I met the new father on the second floor. I wished him Mazal Tov and we walked out together, through the mourners to the street.

He drove off to collect his wife and new baby from the hospital and I went to celebrate DD's birthday. Such is life.

Magnified, Sanctified, Be Thy Holy Name

As I wrote yesterday, I had decided to say the Kaddish prayer every day for the 11 months of mourning, at home, alone with my thoughts and my feelings, and without rules and regulations about how and when I should say it. It's not very long and it only takes a couple of minutes to say. I left my prayer book out on the sideboard where I'd see it every day and it would be handy with the silk page marker in the Kaddish page.

Now here's an interesting fact for those who don't know. Jewish days start in the evening at sundown and end the next evening at sundown. That's why our Sabbath starts on Friday night and you can go out and party on Saturday night. So you need to say Kaddish before sundown or it's the next day and you've missed it for that day. Of course I could have made it my habit to say Kaddish every night before I went to bed but I liked saying it in the morning when the day and I were fresh.

I cannot tell you how many days I missed as I caught sight of the prayer book on the side and and simultaneously noted that darkness had fallen outside. That being said, the notion of Kaddish meant that I thought of my Father every single day for the first half of the year, even if it was just to say, "oh no! I forgot to say Kaddish.... again!" So it definitely served its purpose.

After about five months things shifted a bit. Some of it has to do with the nature of the Kaddish. If you don't know what it is already, you'd think it was a prayer asking God to be merciful on the soul of the departed or something about comforting the mourner. It is, after all, called the Mourner's Kaddish in the prayer book. Nope. None of that. It's a prayer of Praise to The Lord. Just that. Magnified, Sanctified, Be thy Holy Name as Leonard Cohen sang in You Want It Darker. (Some say that Leonard Cohen was saying his own Kaddish in this, his last song.)

Various commentaries have explained it as taking you out of yourself in that even in our darkest moments we give praise to God. Another angle is that we focus on the bigger picture by praising God and acknowledging that the whole of life is part of God's plan. I was a bit shocked to be honest. However, after googling it, I did gain some comfort from the bigger picture explanation.

And then after about five months, it was enough. My God doesn't need me to declare so much daily praise. God is cool and self assured. God's self esteem doesn't need me to buoy it up every day. God knows how I feel about It. So I stopped saying Kaddish, and I stopped forgetting to say Kaddish, and I put the prayer book back in the cupboard where it lives.

For the full account of my journey through mourning see:
What is Shiva
The Phone Call
The Funeral
Our Shiva
Yarhzeit
Kaddish and Me

One Year Of Mourning - Yarhzeit

Today we have our first Yarhzeit. This is the anniversary of the death of a parent (although it can be observed for any close relative or friend). There are various customs but the bottom line is that you light a memorial candle that burns for 24 hours, say the Kaddish prayer and keep the day sombre. (The references say refrain from eating meat or drinking wine. Seriously? I never do either of these in the middle of the week.)

The first Yarhzeit also marks the end of the year of official mourning which you observe only for your parents. (Otherwise people from big families could have years of mourning as they all get older.)

It's a funny old year. There are rules and customs and, it seems, in the end everyone does what they feel comfortable doing. The main customs are not to go to any parties or places of entertainment - defined as places where there is live music, not to wear any new clothes, and to say the Kaddish prayer three times a day with a minyan (a quorum of 10 Jewish men over the age of Bar Mitzva).

Many Jewish men do go to three services a day throughout their lives, Most don't. I remember my father going to a service once a day when he was saying Kaddish for his father. At the weekends he would go to our local shul (synagogue) for the morning service and when at work, he'd go to the afternoon service at the shul near his office in Great Portland Street, London.

I wanted to say Kaddish but it was not realistic to think I could get to a minyan even once a day. As a full-time working, single mother, without a car, I can't even commit to getting to the supermarket once a week. It is for this reason that women are actually exempt from saying Kaddish. Yes, that's right, we don't have to do it at all. But I, like many modern Jewish women, wanted to say it.

My sister in London, who has older children and a car, committed to saying Kaddish with a minyan once a day for the first 30 days (a period of more intense mourning). In the end she continued for the whole year as she said she found it comforting. I don't know what my brother did - I didn't ask and he didn't tell me.

I decided to say Kaddish on my own at home without a minyan for the whole year.  This decision was reinforced by two events that occurred at our shiva. The first was on the Sunday of the shiva. There was a discussion about whether we could get a minyan at the house for the afternoon service or whether my sister and brother would have to go to shul. We had five men in the house (brother, bro-in-law, and three teenage nephews), We had two visiting males and they were wondering if they should knock on the neighbour's door to ask him and his two sons to come and make up the numbers. At that moment I decided that even if I had the opportunity to say Kaddish with a minyan, I would not. I had no interest in giving significance to a minyan that I was not even considered a part of, to heighten my Kaddish. In fact, after that incident, I started leaving the room when they did services in the house in order to say my Kaddish in private.

A few days later my sister's rabbi was visiting and they were discussing how she was going to say Kaddish in the shul. He said, "you just have to make sure that someone is saying Kaddish."
I was confused. "What do you mean? She's saying Kaddish."
The rabbi turned to me and answered with a completely straight face, "as she is a woman, a man has to say the Kaddish with her. It can be another mourner or it can be any man who has previously lost a parent."
Gobsmacked is a word I could use here to describe my reaction. I kept my mouth shut however.
After the rabbi had left, other friends told me that not all other orthodox shuls hold by that rule and that it's entirely at the discretion of the individual rabbi in charge. My decision to not say Kaddish with a minyan was confirmed as the right decision for me.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about my Kaddish experience and explain what the prayer is. And later about how I avoided parties, live music and new clothes.

Tuesday Tidbits #39 - Godly Matters

1
DD: But how did Elohim make himself?
Me: I don't know.
DD: Nobody knows except for Elohim himself. That's the big problem, how did he make himself out of nothing?
Me: You're right.
DD: I mean there was no planet even.
Me: You're right.
DD: Just Out Of Space. Wait, did Elohim live in Out Of Space?
Me: I suppose so. By the way, it's Outer Space not Out Of Space.
DD: Hmmmm. Chilly out there.

2
We are reading Greek Myths.
DD: There's a lot of bad dying in these stories.
Me: What's bad dying?
DD: When someone died because they didn't do what they were told.
Me: Whats good dying then?
DD: When you lived a long and happy life?

Look no front teeth!

3
Pandora's Box
DD: Oh no! I can't bear it! She's going to open that box I know she is. Quick, read it fast, I can't bear waiting for it to happen.

The Shiva (Week Of Mourning)

I want to write about the shiva week but have no idea exactly what I want to say. You already know what shiva is from this previous post so I don't have to explain it. I'm just going to write and see what emerges.

Of course there are the usual shiva stereotypes as with any social gathering. I'm not going to describe the ones I spotted at our shiva as everyone came out of kindness and love and there's an awkwardness around death that can affect people's behaviour despite themselves. Having said that, no one came too early or stayed too late. No rabbis or other learned friends gave long or boring sermons.

My sister's community works like a well oiled machine with a big heart. The friend arranging a meal rota so that home cooked suppers were delivered every day for all nine of us, called to ask if she could also arrange lunches as too many people wanted to contribute.

The 'rules' of mourning are not rules but customs that have evolved into strong tradition. This means you get a lot of flexibility if you are the sort of person who is open to flexibility. I am and so is my mother.

The traditional meal on returning to the shiva house after the funeral is a hard boiled egg, a bagel (with optional butter) and some pickled or salted herring. I'm guessing here that the round foods symbolize the circle of life as does the fish (fish being a fertility symbol) and the pickled or salted aspect symbolizes your sadness and salty tears. I also assume that this was the traditional light lunch or breakfast in the shtetl and it stuck.

You are supposed to wear the same clothes every day and not to wash for a week. This can be interpreted as wearing the same item that was ripped at the funeral. Our ripped garments were cardigans and we wore them every day. My mother and I (and DD) returned to her flat every night where we showered and returned the next day with fresh clothes under the cardigan. I can't speak for the others, I didn't notice.

I also developed an obsession with washing my hands as so many people said, "I won't kiss you as I'm a bit fluey so I'll just shake hands."

There is a mourner's payer, the Kaddish, that the children say for their dead parent (or for themselves, I'm not quite sure), Traditionally only men said this prayer, three times a day for 11 months, in a minyan (a quorum of 10 men who pray together). Nowadays many women say it as well. My sister wanted to say it in a minyan. The the first opportunity for a service at home during the shiva was the afternoon service on Sunday. They started counting around for a minyan. We had five men over the age of Bar Mitzva in the house, they have a neighbour with two sons, and there were two male visitors. We women didn't count at all and were expected to stand at the back. At that point I decided I would be saying my Kaddish alone and not in any exclusively men's minyan. (Btw, there are many enlightened Jewish communities that run with complete egality of the sexes but my sister belongs to a more orthodox community.)

There were pleasant surprises when two friends from Israel turned up as they happened to be in London. An old boyfriend from when I was 17 and I hadn't seen since (although we are fb friends). Friends from my childhood, schooldays, youth club, college years... I have in the past not made it to a shiva, thinking no one would mind as plenty of others would be there and I'm not so close to the person anymore. I've re-thought this after sitting shiva myself. It's so wonderful to see your whole life pop up and come to comfort you. Along with cousins we hadn't seen in years - we found ourselves slipping back into the past and retelling it with warm nostalgia.

DD was taken out by various friends with younger children every day. She had a blast and somehow managed to come home each day with a present in hand. However, her biggest treat was when my b-i-l taught her how to do the washing up and allowed her to wash up whenever there was something in the sink. She said to me, "it's a shame we don't have something like this at home." She pointed to the dish drainer next to the sink. Me: "we do have something like that darling, I'll point it out to you when we get home."

What can I tell you, we had a good shiva.

The Funeral

We were greeted at the funeral grounds by a lovely man, I think he was Irish, who explained to us what was going to happen and in what order. My sister had the official documents that had to be handed over and we also discussed how we would like to perform certain traditions that can be approached in different ways.

My cousin's wife had brought a small pair of scissors so we could make a cut and tear our clothes. It's a small tear on the left above your heart in one garment and you wear that item for the entire week.

The order of service is that we start in the prayer hall for some prayers and someone or someones, in this case my father's rabbi and my sister, speak about the deceased. Then, led by the chief mourners (us), everyone follows the casket down to the grave. Then we all come back to the prayer hall for more prayers and finally the mourners walk out first and greet (not sure that's the right word) all the friends and family as they come out. (This final bit was the option we chose above greeting everyone inside the hall on our way out as that takes ages and feels a bit undignified - like we're celebrities on a red carpet or the Royal Family doing a walkabout.)

I had removed myself emotionally from the whole purpose of the occasion right up until entering the prayer hall. I can do that. Better than falling apart all over the place in public. But then you walk in and see the coffin and think, my Daddy's in that box. I felt my eyes well up but I got it under control before any tears fell.

There were over 200 people at the funeral. Possibly more, I'm not very good at estimating crowds so it could have been more. Two of my closest friends from school came and stood right behind me. It was a real comfort that they were there. I can't say why, but it was. Later as we walked to the graveside I saw and spoke to other friends from my youth - teenage years in our youth club, camping holidays, college days and trips to Israel. I had imagined that after almost 30 years living in Israel, it would be all my parents' and sister and brothers' friends I'd see so it was lovely and quite emotional to see that people had come for me.

A few elderly people came - Aunty Hazel! Aunty Judy! etc... None of them family but my parents' friends from our childhood who came round for tea while we played with their children in the garden before being called in for fish fingers and chips for supper together.

And the family. My father has 19 first cousins and there are about 39 of us second cousins. Apart from on facebook we only really see each other at funerals and shivas as there are too many to invite to a celebration. What can I say, it's lovely to see them all even if it's usually because someone has died.

There were prayers. The rabbi spoke and said how Dad had been the Bob The Builder of our synagogue - always on hand to fix or build something. I remember him painting the blackboards for the Hebrew classes and building the sukkah. My sister spoke about how Dad never saw a problem but would rather find a solution and quietly implement the solution before most people had even seen the problem. I cried a bit then.

We three children said the mourners' Kaddish aloud at the appropriate time. The Irishman came up and told me to slow down as my Hebrew was more fluent than my siblings and I was getting ahead. I tried not to feel pleased about that. No I didn't actually. I felt smug about it.

Then we followed the coffin to the grave. They kept stopping which we thought was to allow everyone to keep up but later we learned they stopped to say psalms. The casket was on a trolley draped with a velvet curtain and pulled by professional burial people. They just said the psalms quietly and by heart. We were standing right behind the trolley and we didn't hear any psalms. It reminded me of the stations of the cross - maybe there's a connection, I bet that's what Jesus was doing.

The burial grounds are on the outskirts of London in Green Belt country. It's beautiful. I thought to myself - I want to be buried here and not in the hot, foreign, scrub of the Middle East. I thought of the poet Rupert Brooke's grave on the Greek Island of Skyros and his poem yearning for tea in Granchester. That'll be me I thought. Others may have been saying psalms at that point but I was reciting in my heart - If I should die think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field, That is forever England.

At the graveside the coffin is lowered into the hole and then the mourners each file past and throw or shovel some earth onto it. In that way you are buried by your family and friends. They had a small box of dry stuff for the ladies who didn't shovel and didn't want to get their hands dirty. And now I've just realized something as I'm writing this.

On the way back into the prayer hall there are basins and everyone is invited to wash their hands. Traditionally it's to wash off any evil spirits (or even just spirits) who gather around death and graveyards. I was walking with my mother who steered us past the washing stations as she said she didn't believe in that. Now I realize that you need to wash your hands if you've been shoveling mud to fill a grave or even throwing in a handful with your bare hands. I love it when I see a practical reason for old superstitions.

After the final round of prayers the four of us chief mourners walked out of the prayer hall down the central isle and waited outside to speak to our family and friends. As it happened, my mother's friend decided that Mum didn't need to stand outside in the cold and that anyone who wanted to speak to her could come back to the house. As they were driving us back to my sister's where we would be sitting shiva for the week, we had to go with them. We ended up standing outside my sister's house in the cold as we didn't have the key and she was still being 'comforted by the mourners' at the burial grounds.

The Call Expats Dread

We call it the dreaded call. The one where they tell you one of your elderly parents has died and you need to get yourself back in time for the funeral. In Jewish tradition this is held as soon as possible - the next day at the latest.

I got the call last Thursday 31/12/15 at 12.30 am. We had been in London for Hanuka at the beginning of December and I knew this was probably the last time I would see my father but I thought it would be a few more weeks before I got the call. However, I knew it was the call as soon as the phone rang so late at night. What else could it be?

I'd already consulted with my friend who is a travel agent and she'd told me that there was nothing she could do with El Al if it was outside office hours. But of course you can book EasyJet (or Monarch now) online at any time of the day or night. So at 1am I booked us two flights to Luton for later that day.

I put a short message up on facebook. Messages of condolence started coming back. It's amazing how many people are up at all hours from 1 am till 5 am. The laptop was pinging every few minutes. I was up as I suddenly realized that we had no clean clothes to take with us and I had to do laundry.

I had been sick with a sore throat for about 10 days previously and I'd been going to bed early and not cleaning or doing any laundry, We had finally run out of clothes but I would have been working from home that Thursday so I'd planned to catch up with all the household stuff during the next day. Instead I did three washes and hung the wet laundry in the spare bedroom with the heater on in the hope that some of it would dry by the time we had to leave for the airport. It didn't but at least I came home to clean clothes a week later.

I also had to clean my flat as I thought friends might come to visit me when we got back if I was still sitting shiva. In the end I wasn't still sitting shiva as the funeral was earlier than we'd expected. At 5 am I finished cleaning the bathrooms and the kitchen and tidying up and packing. I thought I'd get a couple of hours sleep before DD woke up at about 7 but people started calling as they woke up and saw I'd been on fb throughout the night.

I told people that it wasn't unexpected and they said it's ok to be upset even if it was expected, but I didn't have time to be upset. Along with all the cleaning, washing, packing, and travel arrangements I also had to inform all my places of work and students that I'd be away for a week.

Eventually we boarded our plane on Thursday afternoon and I promptly fell asleep for most of the flight. DD looked out the window, did colouring and sticker books and also slept for some of the way. It was an uneventful journey, no different from the one we'd done only three weeks before. I didn't really relate to the fact that we were coming back to bury my father.

House Of Mourning

This morning I paid a shiva call. That's how we say it for some reason. In Jewish families, when someone dies the funeral is held as soon as possible - same day if it can be arranged. There is dignity in this. The Muslims do it too. I will always remember how Dodi Al-Fayed was laid to rest while Princess Diana's body was shlepped up and down the country from place to place while a million people came out to watch and even (why oh why?) to look at the body.

Then the spouse, children and siblings (and parents if necessary - God forbid) sit at home for seven days on low chairs while anyone who knows them or the deceased pays a condolence visit. This is called shiva which means seven and also sitting.

Apparently it's an exhausting week but it serves many purposes and is a comforting process. Obviously there is the spiritual side of honouring and remembering the deceased, reciting special prayers, lighting a candle, making a symbolic rip in your clothing and wearing that item all week, and eating certain foods on returning from the funeral.

There is also the worldly side. For a week the family stays together and are surrounded by friends. There is much talking about the loved one, the family, the past, the recent past, how you feel, anything else, everything else. Talking is good. And the whole thing is so exhausting, apparently, that you don't have too much time to dwell and get too depressed. Before you know it a week has gone by that possibly could have been the hardest week to bear.

Every shiva is different. The best case scenario is a bunch of middle aged siblings celebrating their parent's long and happy life. Other shivas are  more sombre. And some are downright tragic. A friend who had to sit shiva for her father with a mother she didn't get on with, in her mother's home a continent away from any other family and friends remarked wryly, "You don't always get the shiva you wanted."

Sometimes the family imposes visiting times to give themselves a rest and space to eat. Sometimes people come late and overstay their welcome too far into the night. When my father was sitting for my 89yo grandfather, one of the great-aunts started looking purposefully at her watch as the clock struck 10. It had been a very long day, she was in her 80s herself, and she'd had enough. When that didn't deter the few die-hard talkers, she went and got her coat and hat, put them on and returned to her chair. That did it, within a minute the room was miraculously cleared.
"I'll drive you home Aunty," said my cousin.
"Not yet," she replied removing her coat, "Let's have a cup of tea first."

I meant to write about today's shiva but I don't want to add it on to the end of a post that has already rambled on for too long. I'll write about it tomorrow. I have things to say.

Listography: 5 Things I'd Like To Be reincarnated As

I so wasn't going to do this one. It's a bit silly isn't it, after all? So I went to bed after reading some of the other entries (all available for viewing at Kate Takes 5) and things kept popping into my mind just I was dozing off. Well you don't ignore your Blog when it calls you urgently in the middle of the night so up I got...

Five things I would like to be reincarnated as:


1. The twins - Hindsight and Insight. They work together. When Hindsight tells you what will happen if you follow a certain doomed direction, Insight tells you that even though the situation is slightly different this time Hindsight still knows what he's talking about. I'd never make a wrong decision, a dodgy investment, or a stupid move. I'd be made.

2. A juicer. I'd have to eat healthily then. I mean you can't juice a box of chocolates, a slice of cake or even a plate of chips.

3. A mermaid. Whereas in this life I just get on with it and sort out my own problems, there are those women - usually with flowing locks and floaty long skirts so you can't see their (lack of) legs - who in the face of a crisis, will stand in the centre of the room wittering, "how could I have been so silly...?" Meanwhile everyone (male and female) is rushing around trying to fix things for them, gathering whatever they need, seeing to their children, falling over themselves to make it all better for the (I'm convinced of it) mermaid. I want that.

4. A small bottle of water. Lets face it, they get taken everywhere these days. No celebrity, A-lister,  Royalty, or just plain billionaire, ever leaves home without their little bottle of water. Just think of the places I'd go and the people I'd meet. And then I'd 'spill' everything to Hello Magazine and retire comfortably on the pay-off.

5. Google Translate. I'd be able to read everything in almost every language in the world. I'd be highly sought after by diplomats, scholars and global businesses. It's true that no one will understand a word I say but you can't have everything.

Death Came Home Unexpectedly

We go to the library every week and choose five or six picture books for DD (depending if I need any reading matter or not). The system works like this: we each choose a pile of books that we like the look of and then we sit down at a table to go through them. I read some of them to her and others we save for later with just a glance to make sure there aren't too many words. Some books we have to reject as they are too long, not enough pictures, too many pictures without a story, too boring, or unsuitable in other ways.

Last week I chose a book called Nana Upstairs & Nana Downstairs by Tomie dePaola (G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1998) . DD wasn't particularly interested in it so we didn't read it at the library first. I thought it looked sweet though and it had about the right text to picture ratio. So I included it in the borrow pile and we brought it home.

That night in bed we started to read Nana Upstairs & Nana Downstairs as one of our three bedtime stories. It was a sweet story about a little boy called Tommy who visits his Nana every Sunday. She's usually downstairs cooking on the big black stove. However, upstairs is another Nana. This is his Great-Grandmother, Nana's Mother. Nana Upstairs is so old she has to stay in bed most of the time.

Tommy loves his Nanas and spends a lot of time talking to Nana Upstairs and hearing all her stories. DD and I were enjoying the visit with Nana Upstairs too. I thought, what a lovely story about spending time with a very old lady. Then I turned the page and saw that Nana Upstairs had died.

My first thought was to say she'd gone on holiday. We know about Grandmas and Grandpas going on holiday. What did I need to start talking about death for? But then I thought, why should I need to avoid it? So I read: His Mother came in to talk to him. "Nana Upstairs died last night," she said. "What's died?" asks Tommy. "It means she won't be there anymore."

Tommy has a good cry and asks if she will ever come back. "Only in your memory," answers his Mother. "She will come back in your memory whenever you think about her."

"What's died?" Asked DD.
"It's when you are very very old and you go to live with God in heaven."
"Very very old?"
"Yes, older than Grandma and Grandpa."
"OK." said DD and we continued with the story.

One night Tommy sees a falling star. His Mother tells him that maybe Nana Upstairs is sending him a kiss. Then he grows up and Nana Downstairs becomes as old as Nana Upstairs. One day she dies. Luckily there is another falling star to tell him that both Nanas are together again.

The library is closed for three weeks over the summer so we've read this book more times than we usually would. Sometimes we discuss it but only to the extent described above. We also always mention that very very old means much older than our Grandma.

I'm glad we've broached the subject and it's there as a concept if we need to face it in real life.