Jill Of Some Trades

And Master Of At Least One


by Leave a comment

Winning the Information War or Not?

Some of my friends that aren’t Jewish must be wondering why so many of us are posting non-stop about Hamas’s attack on Israel on October 7. It is because we all know that this is an existential crisis not only for our beloved Jewish State, but for Jews all around the world. Never in the course of history have a people been so persecuted. I can share statistics, historical studies, and more. If you request it, I will share every single statistic because I know that we are living in a time where I have to prove everything, including my right to exist.

You may think that this is dramatic, but it isn’t. History, which people so easily forget has proven that. The sad thing is that many people in colleges today either don’t know about the Holocaust or are denying that it even happened. Those very same people are asking for proof that the events of October 7 happened. They need proof that men, women and children were raped, tortured, kidnapped and slaughtered in unspeakable ways. They need proof that the number of Israel casualties are accurate.

These very same people take the word of terrorists as bible. It took Israel four and half weeks to painstakingly go through bone shards, teeth and more to extract enough DNA to get a semi-accurate accounting of the death toll after a massacre when bodies were burned to dust in some cases. They used everything from modern day technology to archeologists to determine a close to accurate death toll. Did I mention that it took four and a half weeks of working around the clock? The Gazan Health Ministry (which is run by Hamas who also controls their messaging) releases their death tolls by the hour.

Let’s take a deeper look at this, shall we? I want to be clear, because in these times, words matter. One civilian casualty is too many. I want the Palestinians to have self-determination in their own homeland living side by side with Israel in peaceful co-existence. That cannot happen with terrorists leading the way. Now that I have stated that, I want you to really think about what I’m saying. I choose my words carefully whatever the circumstance is. I do my research. I shoot video so that I have evidence if need be and I also read – a lot. I’m not an influencer, although part of my job now is as a writer for context.

Back to the reality of what you are seeing. Death tolls are not immediate. Hamas via their Health Ministry will not allow independent verification of their death toll. On November 10th, for example, Israel was blamed for a bombing at Al Shifa Hospital in Gaza. Within minutes, it was announced that 500 innocent civilians were killed. There was an outcry all around the world condemning Israel for the bombing. A few hours later, it was independently reported that Israel was not responsible for the bombing after all. It was Palestinian Islamic Jihad. The actual death toll was limited to 50 people in the parking lot which is where the bomb actually fell. Unfortunately, the damage was already done in the war of information, and Jews felt this both in Israel and the diaspora.

When you look at death tolls, terrorists are counted as civilians by the aforementioned Health Ministry. Israel who has been counting, estimates that 7,000 Hamas terrorists have been killed. Over 11,000 rockets have been launched into Israel. Of those 11,000 rockets, 10-15% fall back into Gaza likely causing a percentage of the deaths that you are seeing. Quite a number of civilians are actually shot and killed by Hamas for trying to leave their homes to escape to the safe areas that the IDF told them to. Those innocent people actually are counted by the “Ministry” as being killed by Israelis. So, hate me if you want, but these are all verifiable facts. Civilian casualties hurt. It’s painful to see, but remember, there was a ceasefire on October 6.

As someone who has worked in media and PR for the last 23 years, I see what Hamas is doing, and I have to applaud them for winning the social media war in the short term. Really – they have influencers sharing their propaganda without even looking for verification. Let me use the words of the Hamas leaders about October 7 to provide context:

Carnage isn’t regrettable – it’s the necessary cost of a great accomplishment:

“It was necessary to “change the entire equation and not just have a clash,” Khalil al-Hayya, a member of Hamas’s top leadership body, told The New York Times in Doha, Qatar. “We succeeded in putting the Palestinian issue back on the table, and now no one in the region is experiencing calm.””

They knew that their assault on October 7 would create a large civilian death toll because Israel would have to react:

“What could change the equation was a great act, and without a doubt, it was known that the reaction to this great act would be big,” Mr. al-Hayya said. (New York Times, November 9, 2023)

Ghazi Hamad admitted in several interviews that the Hamas terror attack on Israel was only the first. There will be a second, third and fourth on the Jewish state. Even when pressed stating that they are asking for a ceasefire, he won’t say that they will never attack Israel again, then he denies knowing any of the October 7 details. How can you have lasting peace with people that are bent on your destruction? Hamad has a habit of saying one thing to a favourable Middle East audience and something very different to a Western audience to manipulate the media, and of course a generation who gets most of their news from TikTok and now thinks of Osama Bin Laden as a hero.

Moussa Abu Marzouk even went so far as to say that the civilians in Gaza are not their problem – let the UN and Israel look after them. How does one claim to be fighting for the Palestinian cause without actually looking after their people? It’s a disgrace.

One thing that has given me hope is seeing the women in Gaza calling out Hamas for keeping the humanitarian supplies away from them and hoarding them for themselves. Maybe a woman needs to be the next leader of Gaza? Just a thought.

I’d like you to apply some more critical thinking. What are some other reasons that the death toll in Gaza so high? It has now been admitted on mainstream media, including CNN, that Hamas uses citizens as human shields. That is right – they embed in homes, hospitals, schools and Mosques to increase the number of casualties. According to a November 3 article in The Washington Post, there are 1300 tunnels spanning 300 miles in the Gaza Strip. Again, Moussa Abu Marzouk, that little humanitarian had the following to say:

“We built the tunnels because we have no other way of protecting ourselves [Hamas] from being killed in airstrikes. We are fighting from inside the tunnels,” the Qatar-based official said, according to a segment of the interview translated and shared by the Middle East Media Research Institute (MEMRI).

There is plenty of room in the tunnels. They could save civilians, but that wouldn’t help win a new war front – the information and social media war. On a day like today, when misinformation is being spread in support of a Gazan ceasefire, no one is asking the critical questions:

-Why won’t Hamas release the hostages?

-Why won’t they help their own citizens?

-If they want a ceasefire, are they using it to re-arm or to plan for peace with Israel? I’m guessing it’s the former. They could have peace if they disarm, recognize Israel’s right to exist and return the hostages. Gazans could finally have a chance to live a normal life, especially if indoctrination is removed from schools.

When I see the protestors everywhere, it is scary. But I, like many of my people will no longer sit silently by waiting for the worst to happen. We are speaking up. We know that the information battle is a marathon, not a sprint, but slowly, I am seeing fatigue from people who want to support Palestinians, but who don’t want people screaming at them when they go to Starbucks or Aroma for a coffee. People who aren’t from the Middle East and have no skin in the game want to be able to go to their favourite deli without a side of protest instead of a pickle. Jewish people want to be able to walk down the street and not fear violence for wearing a Star of David. We all saw the humiliating testimony from the Presidents of UPenn, MIT and Harvard. Let’s be clear for them – genocide of Jewish people doesn’t require context.

I miss life on October 6. I miss writing about the weirdos that I see on the subway, posting about travel or concerts or the events that I go to. I miss just missing my beloved mother and sister. But if we don’t stand together as a community, we will lose the war on all fronts, including the information war, and when your existence is on the line, you do what you have to do.


by 2 Comments

5 Years…

Photo of Michele Schneiderman with Chanukah gifts

Dear Michele

The number 5 in Judaism signifies divine grace, protection, and the foundational structure of Torah. Now let’s get real for a minute – I’m not comparing your loss to anything biblical. What I found interesting, when I looked it up, was the emphasis on divine grace and protection. From the time I was born Michele, until the day you died, you were my protector. Even once you died, people stepped out of the woodwork to tell me that you had reached out to look after me when you were gone. That brought me comfort because it was a little sign from you that you would always look out for me.

Life without you isn’t easy. Every day that passes, I think of something that I would love your opinion on. No one was more direct than you. No one was as honest as you. No one had the gift that you had of telling people what they needed to hear, not what they wanted to hear. You were a gift Michele, and my very best friend.

Growing up, I naively didn’t realize your value. As I got older, I started to see that reliability didn’t mean that you were boring. That your honesty was a necessity. Your loyalty to those that you loved was unshakable, just like our bond. You had a tough exterior that didn’t always reflect how big your heart was. You were disappointed by Dad, but because of you, I try to visit him once a year. I’ll never forget the day of his funeral – you cried because you thought no one would visit him and said that he was still a human being. I try to go once a year for you – but you know – finding “Where’s Waldo” at the cemetery isn’t always easy.

I miss the shorthand that siblings have – how we could just look at each other without having to say a word and have an entire conversation. I miss the “remember whens”. I miss you laughing at me, not with me – that’s okay – I sometimes deserved it. I miss you calling me “Miss Priss” because I was a little on the girly side. I miss you explaining sports to me when Mummy would just roll her eyes and give up. I miss shopping on Boxing Day with you. I miss you singing “Tradition” even though I haven’t seen “Fiddler on the Roof”.

I guess what I’m saying Michele is that I miss you. So much that it still sometimes takes my breath away. A pain in my chest and a lump in my throat still appears from time to time. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you are no longer here. You fought so hard and for so long. You set an example that I will take with me for the rest of my life.

Last night, the Frousins came over for Chanukah dinner, and I gave them cards from that huge box of yours – I wish I could ask you why you literally had hundreds of cards, but it was my way of including you in the holiday. They couldn’t believe that five years have gone in a heartbeat, breath or the blink of an eye. However you want to phrase it, time feels like it has been standing still and marching on simultaneously. The best part was sharing that laugh (about the cards) and the sadness all at once, because two things can be true at once. You bring laughter and tears Michele to the people that loved you.

I hope that you are watching Zaydie, Uncle Dave and Uncle Max play gin. I hope that Mummy and Auntie Marlene were watching the Blue Jays and swearing. I hope that you are at a mall shopping with the $5 that Auntie Tessie would give us at the mall as you listen to a conversation with Bobbie and Auntie Becky struggle to hear each other.

Michele, you had many gifts, but time was not one of them. You were a gift to me – I just wish that it was one that I didn’t have to return.

Love always,

Your baby sister


by 2 Comments

The Silent Scream

Grief is the sadness we feel. Trauma is the scream we swallow. This is the moment I finally heard mine.

This weekend, someone said something to me that was unintentionally cruel. They told me their daughter was going to the U.S. for a treatment not available in Canada and asked if I knew what it cost. I mentioned that Michele went to Buffalo for cancer treatment, so I was aware of the cost. They then asked if it was worth it. “It bought her six months that she never would have had. Yes, it was worth it.”

They didn’t mean to be cruel, but then they said, “Really? Then why didn’t you take your mother there for treatment too?” My simple answer was, “My mother was dying, and she couldn’t travel. Her heart was too weak and she wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the side effects of chemotherapy.” I didn’t react. I couldn’t. But I felt a swirl of emotion rising. I felt like saying, “I get that you loved my mother, but not more than I did.”

Logically, I knew that everything that I said was true, but when I got home, I did what I have a tendency to do. I thought about the “what ifs”. I played the blame game with myself. Why didn’t I look at treatment in the States for my mother? Did I do enough for her?

That conversation literally has had me crying for almost three days. It brought up memories of my mother screaming in pain. I remembered the way she looked at me and said, “No more,” and I simply looked at her and I said, “OK Mummy, no more.” I called the palliative doctor the next morning. My mother wasn’t ready for hydromorphone and was furious with the doctor and me. It took a few more days until she agreed. Watching her suffer broke my heart, but I couldn’t allow myself to fall apart.

It brought back another one of my worst memories. The day that Michele was in the hospital during COVID with fluid in her lungs. They literally drained litres of fluid. She had a chest tube in and she was alone because I couldn’t visit. The day her oncologist came, he told her that now was the time to try a treatment only available in the US – Enhertu or Trastuzumab Deruxtecan. It wasn’t approved in Canada yet. She asked how long she had if she didn’t try the drug – her oncologist replied weeks. Michele broke down and I’ll never forget her crying that she wanted her Mummy. Once again, my heart broke, but I had to stay steady for her. “Michele, I promise you, I’ll fix this. You get some rest, I’ll take care of everything.”

I know that I wrote about this before, but in 24 hours, I had selected a doctor at Roswell Park, checked with CBSA about border crossing during COVID, looked into clinical trials in Canada, found out I couldn’t get the medication across the border, reached out to the drug companies responsible and wrote them of my sister’s dire situation and had meetings set up to discuss my sister’s case. I ended up being put into contact with the #1 oncologist in the Great Lakes region – he led oncology at 7 hospitals and spent hours on the phone with me reviewing my sister’s case, telling me this was her best chance. What I didn’t have the time for was breaking down.

For 6 years, I couldn’t breathe. I broke down when I found out that Michele had cancer, and of course with the death of my mother, but for the last two years of Michele’s life, I couldn’t lose it. I had to be there for her.

I never thought that I would have trauma. I thought, hey it’s just grief when I lost my mother and sister within two years of each other. My so-called trauma didn’t measure up – other people had it worse, didn’t they? Was what I was going through not just grief? Was hearing my mother scream in agony, watching both of these people that I love disappear before my very eyes enough? Was stopping my sister’s blood from gushing everywhere enough? Seeing my mother turn gray? Was holding both of their hands on their deathbeds and telling them it was OK to leave me, that if they needed to go, I would be fine not enough?

My trauma was the scream that I swallowed to keep functioning. To keep myself moving on with my life even though I could just as easily have curled up into a little ball. I have to remind myself that I was the one who had to make decisions, be strong, and keep moving. I thought if I scream and I really lose it, everything that I was doing would collapse…so I didn’t. I held it in. I still do. It shows up in the ways that I doubt myself. The way I question if I did enough as a daughter or a sister or more. It’s the way that my needs always feel minimized because I got so used to putting myself last, like many caregivers do. It’s the way I silently compare what I’m going through and decide that it’s not as bad as what other people have dealt with.

That remark, innocent or not, brought back those two horrifying events, then many more. It changed my narrative in an instant. That part of me that was only focusing on my good memories of Michele and my mother, their strength, humour and how lucky I was to have them. In an instant, the safety of the good memories disappeared.

Grief and trauma. Fraternal twins. One is sadness – pure and simple. One is that silent scream. I finally accepted that what I lived through wasn’t just grief, it was trauma.
Perhaps I’m haunted not by the decisions I made, but by the fact that I had to make them at all.
One comment broke the seal. The scream is still there, waiting to be let out.


by Leave a comment

Musings

Some days, I miss them quietly, like an echo that hums beneath everything. Other days, it’s sharper, like grief has muscle memory and remembers exactly where to find me. And find me, it does.

I’ll catch myself reaching for the phone, or smiling at something they would’ve said, and for a heartbeat, they’re right here. Then they’re not. And I just sit with that space. The one between what was and what still is reminding myself that missing them is its own form of love. And I think of that as the in-between.

They never really left. They shifted forms, into light that I see reflecting on water. Into instinct that I’ve acquired. Into the steady rhythm of my breath when I’m alone. My mother and Michele live in the way I pay attention. I used to think survival meant moving on. Now I know it means carrying them forward; grief as ballast, their memories, a compass. Their courage, my inspiration and North Star.


by Leave a comment

A New Chapter Literally

In 2018, about six months after my mother died, I was contacted by my father’s cousin. He was a psychiatrist and had written a book about grief in the past. He was kind—genuinely kind—and asked if we could meet in person. I was a little wary, but I said yes.

When we met, he told me someone had sent him my blog. He’d started reading it and was struck by a eulogy I had written. He asked if he could include it in a chapter of his upcoming book. Naturally, I assumed he meant the eulogy I wrote for my mother—it was emotional, raw. It made sense.

But it wasn’t that piece. He wanted to include what I had written about my father. The chapter was about death and forgiveness.

I agreed. Not because it was easy, but because he explained the complicated dynamics of the Schneiderman side of the family to me. He wanted to understand why I forgave my father.

The answer, for me, was simple. I forgave him because he was human. Because I believe he struggled with depression. My grief for him isn’t the same as what I carry for my mother or for Michele. The reality is that I don’t think about him every day. But sometimes, letting go is its own form of healing.

I don’t know if the book was ever published. It didn’t really matter. By then, my mother had died. And shortly after, Michele. I came to understand loss in its most meaningful, unrelenting sense.

Which brings me to now.

I’ve been asked to contribute a chapter to a book on care giving. I told one person—but beyond that, I haven’t spoken about it. Not to close friends, not even to close family. It’s strange. I write about grief and loss here to process it, and maybe as the early framework of my own book—for when I’m ready. But I never expected to become a part of someone else’s.

The author of the care giving book didn’t write about the after. She asked me to.

And that feels deeply personal, even though I write about these things publicly. Blogging here feels safer—most of the people reading are strangers. But contributing to a book? That feels more exposed. People I know might read it. And sometimes, I want to keep a piece of the sadness for myself. But I can’t—because now, it’s part of someone else’s vision.

How do I make my story fit?

Grief is personal. It ebbs and flows. Some days, I think I’m fine. Other days, I’m anything but. Part of me wants to take back the yes. But I can’t.

Because the best way for my mother and sister to be remembered—after I’m gone—is to leave a trail of details behind.

I have to remind myself: this is exactly what Michele told me to do. It’s what my sister wanted. And my mother? She would be over the moon. She used to light up when she saw my name in TV credits or in the masthead of a magazine I worked with when I was in media sales. This would thrill her.

The easy part is knowing how the chapter begins—with their death days.
The hard part? The ending.
Because I still don’t know how it ends.

Do you?


by 2 Comments

Graveside Flowers Watered With Tears

The cemetery where my mother and sister are buried called me to renew the flowers that cover their graves. Every year, they are planted. I usually sign up for the three-year plan. They called to renew both—since I have them on the same cycle—and I told them it couldn’t be. I just paid for it.

Turns out, I did. Three years ago.

Of course, I paid right away. But it hit me hard—my mother has been gone for seven years. Seven years. Long enough that I’m renewing the planting of flowers on her grave for the third time. Michele died four and a half years ago, and now I’m renewing hers for the second.

It’s these small moments—these sudden realizations—that hit the hardest.

I was speaking to someone recently about death, and I told them it’s all about the bitter and the sweet. I never fully understood the word bittersweet until I experienced such deep loss. Now, I live it every day.

That’s why people who’ve grieved can laugh one moment and cry the next. I’ll be in a car with someone who has road rage, and suddenly I’m thinking of my little Mummy shaking her tiny fist and giving someone the finger—an image that makes me burst out laughing. And then, just a minute later, I have a lump in my throat, aching from the memory of it.

I’ve written before about how hard it is for me to go to the cemetery now that Michele is next to my mother. I miss them wherever I am, but something about the cemetery brings it all into sharper focus.

Still, I go. I have to check on things. My mother’s headstone is due for a cleaning. I like to make sure the flowers are planted and looking the way they should. The first year, I called the cemetery distraught because her flowers were terrible. I told them she was special—and she deserved better. Now, it brings me a level of comfort to see how the flowers on Mummy and Michele’s graves grow together—melding so that I can’t tell where one’s flowers end and the other begins. Perfect for a mother and child, isn’t it

Taking care of someone after they die often means looking after their resting place. It’s one of those practical parts of grief no one talks about. So, if I may, here are three small pieces of advice:

  • Always renew flower planting for the longest term possible—it spares you one more painful reminder each year.
  • If flowers aren’t affordable (and that’s very real for many), just make sure the ground is sodded properly. Simple care can still be beautiful.
  • Check on headstones. They say every ten years for a cleaning, but where you live matters. Toronto pollution isn’t the same as what you find in a place like Kingston, for example.

I know no one wants to think about these things. But there’s no handbook—so I’m writing one.


by Leave a comment

A Little Late on the Deathiversary

This year has been a more of a struggle. Sometimes, the more that time marches on, the more difficult things become. Maybe it is because my mother’s sister, Auntie Marlene died so recently, it made this deathiversary that much more poignant. Auntie Marlene and I would speak. She would say, “You know what today is, don’t you?” My answer was always, “Of course, how could I forget?” She would then invariably say something along the lines of “You don’t know how upset I am.” In my inside voice, I always said, “But I do.” I loved my aunt dearly, but she was a catastrophist.

Losing that last connection to my mother hurt. I mean, I miss Auntie Marlene in her own right. For the first few weeks after she died, I had to catch myself from picking up the phone to tell her something. I also miss those calls on March 3rd.

It’s so difficult watching my cousins’ grief journeys – mostly because I care about them and hate that they are now suffering such a profound loss. A loss that I know so well. A loss that continues to be my own constant companion. All I can do is try to be there for them and know that like me, they will have to go on. They will of course, but not without missing their own mother. I know that I still my miss mine.

I miss so many little moments. I miss my mother giving me the finger with that big smile on her face. I miss her bratty behaviour that couldn’t hide her heart of gold. I miss her telling me that it was going to snow. I miss her frantically calling me to make sure that I got home OK when that snow forecast was right. I miss her tormenting me. I miss her laughing with me until it hurt. I miss her smile. I miss her advice. I miss having someone around who always knew the answers even for the questions that I didn’t yet ask. I just really miss my mother.

I remember that when she died, I used to say that I wish that she sucked in some way. But she didn’t. She was loved by many, so much so that in some ways, it made me feel protective of Michele’s memory. So many people seemed to talk about my mother, and sometimes, all I thought about was “What about Michele?” I realize how ridiculous that sounds, but my mother was extraordinary and such a big personality that in my mind, I worried that Michele’s reticence meant that she wouldn’t be remembered in the same way. Of course that isn’t true. She was just more reserved, but she is still remembered.

The day before my mother’s yahrzeit AKA the Hebrew calendar deathiversary, my mother’s dear friend called. Mrs. B reached out. I still can’t bring myself to call my mother’s friends by their first name. Respect and etiquette was so ingrained in me, mostly by my grandmother, that I’ve never managed to shake that formality. She called to say that she knew that it was my mother’s yahrzeit and she wanted to find out how I was doing. I was so deeply touched because in a three-month period, her husband and daughter died. She remembered my mother though. I felt almost guilty saying anything because she suffered so much loss. I settled on saying, “I miss her. She was very special.” Mrs. B agreed and told me how much she missed my mother too. This little call meant everything.

Michele and my mother both have their seasons. The anniversary of Michele’s death, yahrzeit, birthday and Chanukah all fall in a very short time period. Her timing is December and January. My mother’s deathiversary, yahrzeit, her birthday, Passover and of course Mother’s Day are all within less than a two month period. In some ways, it’s kind. They each have their periods and I just have six months to get through, to dread, and then I can breathe a little easier. Since there is no overlap, I can concentrate my thoughts on each of them in their own little pocket of time, with Auntie Marlene now occupying the in-between.

I remember writing in my mother’s eulogy that she was world-wise without being world-weary. She just had an incandescent strength like a candle that refuses to be blown out. Her flame and her memory eternal.


by Leave a comment

Auntie Marlene & My Matriarchs

On Sunday, February 9th, 2025, my Auntie Marlene passed away in Ottawa. She died exactly 50 years to the day as her father, Nathan Zelikovitz. At her funeral, my cousin shared a touching moment in his eulogy. He spoke of a nurse who resembled me—similar hair colour and length. Every time my aunt saw her, she would smile and say, “What’s doing, kid?” or “What’s doing, Jilly?” just as she often said to me. That night, my cousin continued, the nurse came into the room where he and his brother sat. Not long after, my aunt passed, believing that the three of us were with her.

I loved my aunt and I will miss her always. Her friend of 70 years traveled to attend her funeral and told me, “You know, your aunt really loved you. She talked about you all the time. You were like a daughter to her.” Of course, that made me cry. She was such a big part of my life. Since my mother passed in 2018, I spoke to Auntie Marlene almost every day. As much as I will miss her, I know the greatest loss belongs to my cousins. They are the true mourners in all of this.

Auntie Marlene did not have an easy life, and believe me, she would tell you. She survived being a single mother at a time when it was the exception rather than the rule. She rebuilt her career, leaving behind her dream of becoming a nurse when health issues made it impossible. Instead, she forged a path in Ontario’s social services, facing challenges that would intimidate most people. She suffered two heart attacks—one of them massive—but she survived. Not long after, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And yet, she survived.

My aunt was someone I loved and deeply admired. That’s not surprising, though. She was part of my beloved matriarchs including my Bobbie, my Mummy, my Michele who shaped me before they left me. Each of them taught me so much. I don’t have time to write a book, so I’ll share one small but powerful lesson from each of them.

My Bobbie, my darling, sweet, gentle grandmother, taught me the importance of etiquette. Everything about Bobbie was perfect—her coiffed hair, her elegant dresses, the regal way she carried herself. Though I’ll never be the perfect lady she was, she taught me that manners matter.

Thanks to her, I know which fork to use at a formal dinner. I say “please” and “thank you” automatically. I never show up empty-handed to someone’s home (except my closest friends, where it would be overkill). I try to give more than I receive. As old-fashioned as it is, etiquette is important to me because it was important to my Bobbie.

My Mummy—strong, spunky, sassy, and secure in herself—taught me everything, including how to survive. Without her example, I don’t how I would have coped with all that I’ve been through. On my worst days, I remind myself of what I once told Michele. That 50% of me—the very best part—is my mother. She endured more than anyone should ever have to. She showed me that no matter what, I have to move forward.

My best friend and sister, Michele—so tentative in some ways, yet so much like her mother in others—was strong, honorable, and gifted, even if she didn’t always see it. She taught me the importance of reliability. If Michele said she’d be there, you could count on it, unless something completely beyond her control stopped her. If she promised to do something for you, she always, always followed through. As you get older, you realize just how rare and valuable dependability is.

And then there’s Auntie Marlene. She wasn’t always an optimist, but she had a huge heart. She never held back an opinion, though it always came from a place of love. Like the rest of my matriarchs, she was an open book. She taught me the value of a genuine compliment.

She told me she thought I was terrific. She would say, “You are a good girl, Jilly.” When I started my own business, she told me how proud my mother would be. (I knew my mother would have had strong feelings about it—but hey, I’ll take the compliment!) Every kind word from my aunt meant so much because I knew she believed it. Her respect mattered to me. She mattered to me. Thanks to her, I understand the power of an honest compliment given sincerely.

Living without these four incredible women is the hardest challenge I will ever face. But I still hear their voices (not in a weird way!) guiding me every day. It’s heartbreaking to watch my cousins navigate these early, painful days of mourning, but I will be there for them, exactly as their mother would have wanted. And I know, Auntie Marlene, that they will get through this—because the best part of them came from you. If they happen to forget, I’ll be there to remind them.


by Leave a comment

Happy Birthday Platitudes

The Birthday Girl

This is the eve of what would have been Michele’s 60th birthday. The photo above is her very last birthday. It was such a great day. She turned 55. It was right before COVID. I made an appointment for her, myself and our “Frousin” at the Lipstick Bar. I bought Michele more lipstick there.

We went for lunch and shopping at John Fluevog. Michele bought a beautiful pair of boots that she never had the chance to wear. At night, I gave her the “big” gift – a pair of tickets to Hamilton. I already took her to Celine Dionne, her dream concert, for Chanukah. Everything was about giving her something to look forward to. I thought if I did this, it would keep her alive. It clearly didn’t, but at least she did some of what was on her bucket list.

This time of year is excruciating. Michele died right after Chanukah on December 21, 2020. Her birthday is January 3, the Jewish anniversary of her death, her yahrzeit is coming up on January 7. We also had things that we did together on Christmas (yes, movies and Chinese Food) and Boxing Day shopping. It’s just difficult to have everything so clumped together. It’s the same with my mother. Her deathiversary falls near her birthday and Passover and Mother’s Day is very close too.

Michele was the penultimate birthday girl. She loved that day more than any other day of the year. She was guaranteed to have a smile on her face all day. She never liked being the center of attention. On this one special day – it was all about her, and she reveled in it. As we grew older, and I understood how much I valued having her as my big sister, I made sure that I spoiled her. Why shouldn’t she have a day that was all about her? I loved her birthday as much as I hated my own, mostly because she was so happy with it.

For me, the tragedy was that she died so close to the day that she loved so much. She told our friends, her caregivers, that she just wanted to make it to her birthday. It was less than two weeks from the day that she died. I wish I had known. I would have made a little COVID party for her. But you can’t change the past, can you?

The Platitudes

That brings me to the platitudes. This year has gotten off to a sad start. I found out today that one of my mother’s closest friends lost her daughter. The funeral is tomorrow. I wish I was braver so that I go but I just can’t do it. I never met her daughter, and I think that there is something so personal about the death of a child. There is something very personal about loss in general. So, I dutifully wrote a note that offering my condolences, making sure that I said that I knew that my words wouldn’t heal anything, but hoping the memories would. No matter what you say, it feels trite.

I found out that another lovely woman that I am friendly with lost her brother yesterday. She is older, but still, her other brother died just a few months before. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? But then again, life often isn’t fair. It’s in situations like this, and I’ve been told this – you are never given more than you can handle. That is the saddest platitude of them all. I don’t agree with that one – you can be strong, and be given too much. They aren’t mutually exclusive.

Another friend of mine lost her father-in-law this year. Out came the platitude of the first is always so hard. It’s true, but the 31st can still be a struggle. There is no time limit and contrary to popular opinion, it doesn’t get better. You just learn how to better cope. A griever learns how to compartmentalize. My mother used to say, “Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone.” I think she appropriated the line from someone else, but you get the idea.

So. what can you say? There is nothing and everything that you can say that will make a person feel better. You can’t make grief go away with words, but knowing that you care helps. Don’t be afraid to speak about the person who died. They are never far from the griever’s thoughts. Speaking about them is a way to keep their memory alive. If you try to avoid mentioning them, it’s incredibly sad and awkward. Acknowledge a day that is difficult or the holidays, or whatever the time of year.

The Collection

I was at my mother’s best friends for Chanukah. I’m very close with the family. To this very day, they miss my mother so terribly, that it’s hard for them to look at a photo of her. They cry when they see me. Even though it is hard on me to be the comforter, rather than the comfortee, it makes my heart sing a little to know that my mother was loved and remembered.

I am close friends with their daughter and love her now grown children like they are my nieces. My friend and her daughter asked me a question. They wanted to know the most surprising thing I found out Michele collected. My sensitive almost niece said, “You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too hard.” I told her that speaking about Michele brings me sadness, but it also brings me joy. Death brings a bitter-sweetness to life.

“Coins”, were the answer, “there were so many coins, everywhere. Collectible coins, coins that she put in piggy banks to save for a frame for her needlepoint. US coins that she was hoarding for trips. Just so many. There were bags and bags that I filled with them.”

I always joked that Michele could leave two nickels in a room together and they would magically turn into a roll of quarters. You think I’m exaggerating , but it’s the truth. One night, I decided that I wasn’t going to bed until I rolled up a bag of coins to bring to the bank. I laughed as I counted quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Then I cried. Then I laugh-cried. Anyone who deals with loss knows what it’s like to manage to do all of those things at once.

I’ve read so many articles about how to get through birthdays and holidays without your loved ones. That you can still celebrate them. I think that sometimes, you just need to get through the day any way you can. I have plans tomorrow night – that will help. I know that I’ll cry for at least part of the day. How can I not? I will be wishing that I could give Michele the 60 gifts that I would buy her to celebrate her special day. I will think of that big smile she had on her birthday. I will think about how happy the cake would have made her. I will think of the calls that she would get – mostly because she never learned how to text. How happy the calls would have made her. She still would have liked the cake and presents most of all.

I miss you Michele. I hope that you and Mummy, Bobbie and Zaydie are all together celebrating your big day. They have you there – but I still have a little part of you down here too.


by 2 Comments

Four Years Michele

I was having dinner with one of my dearest friends the other night. She knew that December 21st was your deathiversary Michele. She said that she knew I would write a blog. I would do something to keep myself busy on the day. All the while, I would mindfully watch for 6:45pm. The exact time that you died. She reminded me in a card of the time that we all went to Walmart together. You were delighted. I was neutral at best, but then again, you always loved a deal. She reminded me that I have people that care and remember you.

I spoke with someone else this week. Someone who is sick too. Someone who is wonderful and loved, just like you Michele. They wanted to know about one of the treatments that you were on. I, of course, couldn’t say no to a person in need. I relived your illness to help give some guidance. They then asked me if I ever received signs from you or Mummy. Our mother was always more obvious, even in death. You took your time, but that birthday card was everything.

It is hard to believe that another year has come and gone Michele. This year was more challenging. I really missed your guidance. I missed your practical advice. I missed your sarcasm. I missed you managing my expectations. I missed you telling me to learn how to relax. I missed you telling me everything. I just really missed you Michele.

I learned a bit more about you this year. I mean, let’s face facts, you were a semi-open book. Here is what I learned:

-You were a collector of everything. Things that I knew about like books, clothing, makeup and oh, those horrifying clowns. I found out that you also collected some coins and stamps. I mean, I knew that you hoarded change, but really, did you have to buy collectible coins and stamps too? Really Michele, you are always keeping me busy.

-I found your report cards. The teachers said that not only were you shy, you were afraid to participate in case you made a mistake. Oh Michele – I wish that you had more confidence. You deserved to. We all make mistakes, but you would rather say nothing than risk making one.

-I remember once, we were fighting, and you told me that everything just came to me, it was so easy. I feel for you Michele. It was never easy – maybe school was for me – but you were so much better at so many things than I will ever be.

-I found the letters from Dad that you kept. He spelled your name Michelle. I laughed when I saw it, then I thought of how much that must have hurt you. He was the one who gave you the name Michele and you were a Daddy’s girl for more than half of your life. I’m so sorry that he disappointed you. You deserved better.

I think about you as I get rid of so many things. You would hate it so much Michele. Another half-truck went out the door the other week and I’m still getting rid of things. I’m not getting rid of your memory, just things. You are never far from my thoughts.

There were so many good memories Michele, even when you were so sick. I was so in awe of how you carried yourself. I was so in awe of your bravery. You let me do the planning, but you still showed up. Concerts, plays, trips, me surprising you and not telling you where I was taking you. You trusted me, and I’ll never forget that.

You trusted me with your life. Remember that day – that awful day in June 2020 when you were at the hospital and the doctor said that you had weeks? I promised you I would find a solution. You trusted me, and off to the States we went. I packed your bag with just in case items, at the height of COVID. Snacks, Kleenex, your Kobo, your travel pillow, your medication, a change of clothes, just in case. You trusted me to look after everything. I’ll never forget that Michele. I’ll never forget you saying “Talk to the doctors for me,” like Mummy did. You didn’t want to know anymore. I don’t blame you. It was scary enough for me to see.

I’ll never forget that last day either Michele. I was so worried about you. You didn’t want me around, and you kept saying to Emily and Narda – “I’m scared”. I should have know by your agitation what was happening. You were scared because you knew what was happening. I remember being desperate for you to eat anything. I made you tuna thinking you may want that. You didn’t. I looked at you and said would you like a McDonald’s milkshake? You were so excited.

I walked to the drugstore to get you just-in-case items. Emily and Narda called to say you were asking where I was. I hurried and went to McDonald’s. I’ll never forget them saying that they were out of the chocolate syrup to make the milkshake that I had to get for you. I must have looked so desperate. I said, “You don’t understand, my sister is dying of cancer. This is all she wants.” They went away and came back magically with the chocolate shake. You were so happy – not really yourself, but for a moment, you were so happy.

Julia, the night time caregiver woke me up at 2am to say that you were having trouble breathing. I told you that I had to call an ambulance. I knew that you didn’t want to go, but we had to. I packed up your things while we waited, believing that of course you would come home. Except you didn’t.

Instead, I was with you from 2am until you died at 6:45pm. I remember everything. I remember the EMTs staying with me. I remember looking at them saying “My sister is going to die, isn’t she?” They looked at me and said that you were very sick. They were unbearably kind. I remember you being wheeled into a room. I stood there holding your bag that I so carefully packed with clothes and toiletries that you wouldn’t need. I remember crying silently. I remember the security guard looking at me, with such immense compassion. He cleaned a chair for me and made me sit down.

I remember the doctor coming out and saying that you were very sick and that I needed to make a decision. I knew what he meant. I said what would you do if it was your sister. He told me he would want to keep her comfortable. I knew what the right answer was Michele, but I needed to hear it from someone else. I remember saying, “Promise me that she will be comfortable?” He promised. I remember saying “I have to stay with her. I know that there are restrictions [because of COVID] but I will die if she has to die alone.” I was allowed to stay.

I was with you in the ER for a couple of hours. They finally brought you up to palliative care. I had to wear a mask, gown and gloves. I didn’t care. I was able to sit with you and hold your hand, and talk to you about everything and nothing. Even though you weren’t conscious, I knew that you could hear me. I remember needing a coffee. It was morning. I went downstairs to get one but told you that before I went, that you had to be there when I got back. I remember sitting there thinking, I packed everything for you, and nothing for me. I left again to buy some toiletries, fully prepared to stay there for the long haul.

I remember the hushed tones of the palliative care doctor. I wanted to say to her why are you whispering? I remember the kind nurse who brought me tea. I remember people calling and me holding the phone to your ear – unable to speak or respond in anyway, but people needed you to know that they loved you. I remember at 6:44 saying those words to you Michele. Remember? “I love you Michele. I’ve got you here and Mummy has you on the other side. We are both with you.” You looked up at me for the first time that day, mouthed Mom and then you lay back and died at 6:45pm.

I said your name. I took your pulse and knew that you were gone. I called the nurse to let them know. One hour later, they told me that you were dead. I rolled my eyes thinking I told you that an hour ago. I remember speaking with a few people. Howie of course. The Frousins. I posted it on Facebook so that I only had to repeat it once, but also so that I could say how I was feeling in that moment. How your life mattered. How your death broke my heart. It still does Michele, but as you would say, I have to live my life.

I remember another nurse coming in and telling me that I had to leave while they “prepared the body”. I told them I wasn’t leaving. They insisted. I remember saying to them, you don’t know what I’ve been through with my sister. Nothing would bother me at that point. I finally left and then was welcomed back in. I stayed with you for as long as I could before they took you away. I remember walking out of the hospital, into the cold night. It was 10:30. Not even four hours had passed. I walked to the subway. Howie wanted to pick me up. I said no. My friend insisted. I said no. I had to figure out how to do this life without you, starting that very minute.

I remember getting on the subway wondering if people would know that I was different. I remember getting home, putting everything back the way it was. Stripping your bed. Sitting in your room careful to not touch the little table with your eyeglasses, jewelry and medication. Leaving it like that for almost 2 years. I remember taking a shower wondering if I would ever feel clean again. Not because you were dirty, but you can’t wash survivor guilt away.

I took one of your Ativan so that I would sleep. I knew that in just a few hours, I would have to plan your final goodbye. However, when you are sisters, it’s never final, is it? You will always be a part of my life. And I will always be part of yours. I will always feel your absence Michele, always. But, I will always be so proud of you.


by Leave a comment

October 7: One Year Later

One year ago tomorrow, I woke up to a phone call at 7am. It was my friend Shai DeLuca. “I’m just letting you know that I’m OK”. I’ll never forget him saying that to me.

I jokingly responded, “Why wouldn’t you be? Did you do something stupid?”

“Didn’t you see the news?”, he asked. “Israel has been attacked by Hamas. It’s a massacre Jill.”

From the frantic sound of his voice, I knew that this was different. I quickly scrolled my phone. After asking if he was OK, he let me know that he was at the airport for his scheduled flight. I was worried sick about he and his husband.

Shai left me more voice texts throughout the day, at first telling me about the rapes and massacres. He then told me that Hamas was sending video proof of what they were doing to Israelis through Telegram, a private messenger service. Imagine being so proud of massacring people that you video it, then share it as a tool of terror. Shai then told me that he wouldn’t share the videos with me, they were too graphic. Then, as is his fashion, he sent me video after video of the horrors. It was beyond. Bodies lying at bus shelters. Old and young. People slaughtered in their homes. Sadly, many of the people that they killed were kibbutzniks – the most peace loving people. More than 250 hostages were taken and it was apparent that a few, like Naama Levy, with a huge bloodstain on the seat of her pants were viciously raped.

That day, and every day since, my heart has literally been broken. I needed to be in Israel as soon as possible. Thanks to a media trip arranged by Shai, I went in early December, less than two months after the attack. It wasn’t just about bearing witness, although that was part of it. I needed to be there, to be a comfort if I was able. I needed to be around my people. I needed to do something, anything to help.

Every day that we were there, we were faced with trauma and hope. We went to meetings at the Foreign Ministry. We went to Yad Vashem and the Western Wall. But, the most important days were the days that we went to the South and then to the North.

We visited Kfar Aza – one of the kibbutzim attacked that fateful day. We saw, we witnessed. We wept. It was like time froze on October 7. We were told not to film inside the houses. I had to. How would people believe what they could not see? Although, many still don’t believe what happened or found a way to blame Israel in a series of whataboutisms that are akin to condoning the worst slaughter of Jews since the Holocaust. We heard people say what proof is there of rape even with eyewitness reports. Sorry – no one is going to show you photos and corpses can’t speak.

We went to Sderot – a once thriving small city that now feels like a ghost town where the police headquarters were taken over by terrorists. The building is razed, but the memories are burned into our conscious.

We met with Daniel Toledano, whose brother Elia was kidnapped from the Nova Festival. I sat right across from him, unable to stop my tears because I understood his desperation to save his brother. Unfortunately, Elia, who was known as a joyful teddy bear, was discovered dead not long after, his body returned to his family for burial.

We met with displaced people from the kibbutzim – some unsure of whether to return when they were rebuilt. We met a wonderful Druze family. Druze are Arab-Israelis who are intensely loyal to the country they live in. They bravely serve in the IDF along with other Arab Israelis like the Bedouins who also suffered loss and had loved ones kidnapped on October 7.

We visited the North, just 9 kilometers from the Lebanese border where we heard shelling in the distance. The woman that we spoke with at the Alma Centre told us that she expected a war because Hezbollah were intensifying their attacks.

What completely broke me, more than any of these things was the look of desperation in my Israeli brothers and sisters eyes when they begged me to tell these stories. Me. I’m not an influencer. I’m not famous. What can I do? But then I remembered a line from the Talmud: “Whoever saves a single life is considered by scripture to have saved the whole world.’ I might not convince everyone to let go of antisemitism and anti-Israel sentiment, but if I can educate one person, maybe that is enough.

For the past 364 days and counting, I have shared Stories on Instagram trying to reach that one person. I have written an article on the magazine that I am a partner in about the sexual violence against Israeli women. I have answered questions. I have understood that allies may not be as vocal as I would like, but they are there. I have seen antisemitism, and I now understand that I’m not in a little protective bubble. I’m hated by many for the simple fact that I’m Jewish. I’ve been attacked on social media, but I won’t back down. I’ve been on college campuses and saw first hand how indoctrinated some of the students are. I’ve seen protesters who know nothing, but think they know everything, supporting terrorism.

Through all of this, I refuse to give up hope. I refuse to give up on Israel because in this past year, it has never been more important to have a place to run to should things get out of hand here. I refuse to be bullied by people who have never been to the Middle East and live a lift of cozy privilege make judgments on a nation surrounded by enemies. I will not be spoken down to by people who think that because they play “Call of Duty” that they know about war.

Now, because a picture is worth a thousand words – take a look at the results of October 7 and ask yourself what you would do? All photos were taken by me in Israel.

Hostage post of Kfir Bibas – still a hostage, the youngest one…
A home in Kfar Aza pockmarked by grenade shells.
Bedroom burned in Kfar Aza – you can guess what happened to the occupants and it is haunting.
The saddest part of this was seeing the oil on the counter, knowing that the family was just making breakfast like it was any other day.
Navigating through the rubble at Kfar Aza
I thought the pockmarks were bullet holes. They were from grenades. This was a family home.
Kfar Aza was attacked on the Jewish festival of Simchas Torah. Some of the rubble is left from a Sukkah that was put up for the festival of Sukkot.
The remains of a kitchen. Sadly, several other kibbutzim likely looked like this.
I wonder what happened to the little girls who rode these bikes. It was like time was standing still.
Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started