“There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a
time for every event under heaven—
A time to give birth and a time to die; A time to plant and
a time to uproot what is planted.
A time to kill and a time to heal; A time to tear down and a
time to build up.
A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a
time to dance.
A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones; A time
to embrace and a time to shun embracing.
A time to search and a time to give up as lost; A time to
keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear apart and a time to sew together; A time to
be silent and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate; A time for war and a time
for peace.”
For our family, a time for our worst fears and most
magical dreams to come true, all at the same time.
On November 19th, our daughter, Daniela
Alona de Galbert was born. On November 20th, my father (Aba in
Hebrew, or Abush as we called him), Guy Alon, passed away after four years of
living with cancer. This post, to the best of my ability, is an effort to
celebrate both of their lives.
Pierre and I reached Needham at the beginning of
October. I was 7.5 months pregnant and our to-do list of getting ready for the
baby was long and overwhelming. My dad was thrilled that his transplant was
delayed by a few days so he was home when we reached. The few days at home all
together were busy, but we got a few nice moments. Anna, my good friend from
Ottawa, was also visiting, so we went with my dad to the Elm Bank Reservation,
a park not far from Needham and one of his favorite spots for taking pictures
of flowers. We walked around and enjoyed the fall day. We got some nice
pictures, and my dad just could not get over the size of my stomach. At home, Pierre
made mafe beouf for all of us, one of our favorite dishes, and we had a nice
family meal together. One of the evenings, my dad wanted to feel the baby move,
and when she kicked him, he lifted his hand so high and laughed that she kicked
him really hard. After a few days, he packed his bags for the hospital, excited
that he finally made it to the donor transplant, the procedure that he fully
believed would return him to health.
The first few weeks were normal, or felt normal
since Abush was so good at making all of us feel that his illness was not that
serious. Guy had made an art out of making the most of his hospital stays.
Armed with his laptop and blackberry, he continued to work from the hospital,
even when not feeling his best. Pierre, my grandmother, my mom and I visited
him almost every day, to talk, watch TV, pass the time quietly but together.
When the chemo hit and he lost his appetite, Abush or my mom would order
macaroni and cheese for me to satisfy some late pregnancy cravings. Meanwhile,
our baby girl continued to grow and grow, and we were just getting so excited
to meet her.
By the end of October it became clear that the
transplant had some very serious complications. My dad started to be sleepy
most of the time, and sometimes not making sense. It took some days before we
met all the doctors and understood the severity of the situation; complications
from the transplant had damaged his liver and kidneys. Doctors started him on
the only medicine that could have helped and we entered the waiting period.
Waiting while someone you love is sick is probably the hardest task. Every day
was an emotional roller coaster. A blood test would indicate a small
improvement, which felt like a huge leap forward, only to be set back hours
later by another test, or another complication. As long as there was hope, we
all believed that if anyone can come out of this, it is Guy with his strength
and optimism. Abush was so certain always that he can recover that we could not
consider any other possibility. We took the ups and downs and just waited for
our little miracle, while painfully watching our beloved and energetic Guy less
and less alert and unable to communicate with us. The last thing he said to me,
with great effort, was “how are you feeling?” Even in this difficult time for
him, he still wanted to care for all of us, like he always had. The nurses
started joking that our baby girl will be born on the transplant floor, and
each day they would all welcome me by asking “you’re still here?” As Guy’s
condition worsened, he was unable to breathe on his own and with a breathing
tube he was moved to the intensive care unit. We struggled in the intensive
care unit, not knowing what Guy wanted, trying to hold on to hope, and
suffering at the sight of all the medical interventions. We met some nice
families in the waiting room where we spent hours and hours between visits with
Abush. We connected to these families like “ships that pass in the night, and
speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the
darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look
and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.” We always hoped that when we
stopped seeing a family, their loved one has gotten better, and we hoped soon
they would not see us. As our baby girl moved inside me, I found it amazing
that our bodies just knows how to create life, that the process is so
miraculous and natural, and yet fixing life, once something is broken, is a
painful process, a struggle. All that we are, our potential, our love, and our
dreams depend on this delicate balance of bodily processes that we take so
often for granted but are really daily miracles.
Each day before leaving the hospital, I whispered to
Abush that if he does not see me for a few days it is because I went to give
birth to his granddaughter but that I was always thinking of him. On November
18th, exactly on her due date, a time-keeper like her
great-grandfather and grandfather, our daughter started the long birth process.
The labor was long, very long, and one of the hardest experiences both Pierre
and I have ever gone through together, but with the support of amazing midwives
and nurses, and Pierre as my rock, we got through it. One of the midwives had
told me that you have to take labor one contraction at a time, and so I tried
to think of my dad, his optimism, and taking life one small challenge at a
time. I tried to picture breathing in love and out fear, and remembered a poem
that my mother found for my dad and that I read to him everyday while in the
hospital.
“When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out,
Dont' give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.”
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out,
Dont' give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.”
Then, in one magical moment, life changed
completely, and after so many months of waiting and hours of hard work, there
she was, Daniela Alona de Galbert, on my chest, a real little person that
Pierre and I created, and I loved her instantly. All of a sudden I understood
the love that a parent feels for their child, was able to comprehend the love
that my father has for me, and I felt so blessed. My mom, or Savta Shoshi
(grandmother shoshi), my aunt Iris, and my sisters, Neta and Lior, came to see
Daniela and she gave all of us so much joy. On November 20th, my mom
held the phone up to my dad’s ear and I told him he was a grandfather now and
that Pierre and I will do our best being the best parents we can, like he has
been to me. A few hours later, my Abush passed away, with Iris singing his
favorite lullabies and my mother holding him, surrounded by love.
I like to believe that their spirits met as Daniela
came into this world and Guy was on his way somewhere else that we don’t know.
A South African woman once told me that babies are born with fists because they
hold in their little hands gifts that they bring into this world. We all carry
gifts from our ancestors, genes, histories, physical features, and spiritual
connections. When I look at Daniela I hope that my dad gave her something as
they crossed. I hope she got his genuine kindness. She is such a small person,
and she needs our help for almost everything right now, and yet sometimes it
feels that much like Guy, she carries our entire family on her shoulders,
keeping us focused on life instead of death, on love, instead of loss. I tell
Daniela that we are not sad because of her; I love you with all the pieces of
my broken heart, I whisper in her ear. I hope that even in this difficult time
we can give her enough love and happiness, and I think of this song by Leonard
Cohen. “Ring the bells that still can ring; Forget your perfect offering; There
is a crack in everything; That's how the light gets in.” My hope is that the
cracks in our hearts only enable us to love her more, to appreciate more each
day, to celebrate what we do have in honor of what we have lost. There is
certainly some beauty in the timing, a reminder of the circle of life, but it
is also very painful. I close my eyes and I picture Abush holding Daniela, or
how much fun he would have had taking pictures of her little hands and feet,
and it breaks my heart that he got so close, that he fought so hard, and it is
unfair, cruel really, that we could not enjoy this special time with him.
We came home for the hospital on a Monday, the
funeral was Tuesday, and we began a week of Shiva, a Jewish tradition of
accepting visitors at home during a mourning period of 7 days. Our Shiva, much
like the funeral, was our own version. Friends brought food and pictures and
videos of Guy that made us laugh and cry. Lior made a beautiful book with
pictures of Abush. We felt overwhelmed at times by the love and support, and
mostly by how much everyone loved Guy. He really was such a remarkably good
person, not in any grandiose way, but he had a simple kindness and a goodness
that everyone who knew him adored; I think he always made people feel like they
mattered to him.
At the funeral, I shared that every person who has
had the honor to cross paths with Guy knows how kind, loyal, ethical, and
big-hearted he was. It is truly amazing, how in the last few weeks of his illness,
every person that we talked to, from work colleagues, the secretary handling
our heating bills, travel agents, doctors, nurses, and of course his friends,
all say how wonderful and caring he had been to them. Indeed he was an
inspirational friend, colleague, brother, son, and person. And yet, I feel
privileged and lucky because I believe I always got to see Guy in the two roles
he did best – a husband and a father. Abush’s relationship with my mother will
always be the definition of love in my heart. When we were children we used to
complain about the two kissing all the time. As an adult, and now that I have
found my own love with Pierre, I see their dedication to each other and sincere
joy at sharing their lives as a model of love that inspires me each day. To us
girls, he was the best father in the world, and although Neta, Lior, and I are
all so different, he found ways to be there for each of us in a special way. In
all my travels and adventures, I have always felt safe and confident because I
knew he was watching over me from afar, always ready to change a ticket, call
an airline, fill out an application, or do whatever it took so that I could see
the world, and try to find my place within it. I hope that now, even though he
is not physically with us, that he will continue to watch over me and my
sisters and that we continue to make him proud.
Now, with this beautiful autumn weather that is
uncommon as we go into December, I think of Abush each time, Pierre, Daniela,
and I take a walk, and I think of how much he would enjoy these nice days. It
feels impossible that the world outside is the same, life continues, when our
world has been turned upside down in so many ways. Guy was so optimistic, truly
so, that he did not even consider the possibility of anything but a complete
recovery. He swept us with his courage and we all believed with him. Now, that
he had passed away, it seems impossible; sometimes, I feel like he is still in
the hospital, that maybe we can go visit him. It is hard now, but I feel
thankful that his certainty that he will be healthy again meant that he really
lived during his 4 years of battling cancer, and in many ways those were the
best years of our lives. We enjoyed those moments with a joy that buds from the
realization of how fragile life can be but protected with Guy’s optimism,
without the fear that they might be our last. I feel that Guy would want all of
us to continue his sense of optimism, and remember that even though optimism
sometimes may not change a life’s course, the lesson from his life, and
especially the past 4 years, is that optimism gives life meaning and allows us
to live with hope and love instead of fear.
People say that time will heal, but I am not sure. I
think that from now on every moment in life, including the happiest and magical
moments we are already experiencing with Daniela, will have a pang of sadness
that we cannot share with our beloved Abush. My hope is that time will teach us
to accept both the sadness and the joy with more grace so that they dance
instead of clash in our hearts.
Many of you have sent messages, kind words, gifts,
and your love and support to my family and I and I want to thank you with all
my heart for your friendship in this special time in our lives. Having a small
baby means I am not as good at responding to e mails but please know that your
love and support have meant a lot to me. Some of you have asked how to send
messages for my dad’s memorial book and how we plan to honor his life. For
information on these please see the last blog post we put on Guy’s blog:
guyalon.blogspot.com
Thank you for being in my life
Inbal
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| Daniela Alona |
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| At Elm Bank, a few days before the transplant |
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| As we will always remember him, always smiling, always optimistic |
