Most of this year I have worked to center memories of Orli’s better moments, the joy she infused in each minute she got to live. One month after her first brain tumor surgery, when she’d rebounded better than any of us could have hoped, we met old friends from Spain for dinner. As we ate, a sudden, drenching storm came up. Orli got up and ran into the warm rain with our friends’ children, dancing, thrilled. It was, she told me, a “bucket list moment.”
She seemed to realize, far earlier than I, she had to lean into each experience, to expand it, to let it fuel her for whatever came next. In her journal she worried she might not see ninth grade. She did not share that with her friends.
Each of us in our rump family has felt an almost visceral physicality of these past few weeks — the slide from her birthday toward this anniversary, the terrible knowledge that we each hold of the last moments of her life, the good minutes we had, the harder hours, the terror of those final days.
In her last week, one doctor cornered me at the hospital to tell me Orli shouldn’t be here anymore. It was not clear if he meant “here, still receiving palliative treatment,” or “here, on earth.” She was fading, I knew. But it felt an awful thing to say — unforgivable, really. I thought of Abraham arguing with God to save the wicked towns. I wanted to ask: But what if I get 15 good minutes with her each hour? Or five? Orli was adamant she did not want to die.
In Judaism a child who is an avel, or mourner, is to stop saying Mourner’s Kaddish for her parent at 11 months as she re-emerges into the community. But because parents who have lost a child have no obligation beyond the first 30 days, this marker holds no meaning. And because those who have lost children are, in many ways, forever seen as mourners, forever noted for their loss, we remain on the margin — in the community but not entirely of it. Once, early in Orli’s illness, on the same path where I saw the fox, I overheard a woman, just slightly still within my earshot, who passed me. “That’s Sarah Wildman, the woman whose daughter …”
