A time of everything

December 13, 2011

“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 19^th, our daughter, Daniela Alona de Galbert was born. On November 20^th, 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 18^th, 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.”

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 20^th, 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

Daniela Alona

At Elm Bank, a few days before the transplant

As we will always remember him, always smiling, always optimistic